Little Goldfish
by hobbitsdoitbetter
Summary: Sherlock Holmes isn't a goldfish, and those who aren't goldfish don't have problems. So why is everyone acting like he has? Perhaps it's because in the aftermath of his relapse and Moriarty's reappearance, certain... cracks are beginning to show. And even if he had problem... Why would some part of him seem convinced that Molly Hooper can help? That's the greatest mystery of all.
1. Clean

_Disclaimer: _This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. Please note that the following story will eventually contain references to completely consensual bondage with a female domme. If this squicks you, I suggest (with respect) that you do not continue reading. If on the other hand you do… Well, us bossy ones have to stick together, now don't we?

* * *

- **CLEAN-**

* * *

The first time it happens, it takes him completely by surprise.

They're in St. Bart's, he's just peed in a cup and Molly has just gotten the entirely expected, entirely positive- _or negative, depending on how you look at it_- results of said peeing. She's not happy. Which is probably why she's just slapped him.

Hard.

Three Times.

On the face.

It's really, really, _really_ bloody painful.

Embarrassing too- horrifyingly so- though he won't admit it. The echo of the hurt is ricocheting through his skin, making his bones vibrate slightly and oh but that is an unexpected sensation. Oh but that is wild and sharp and bright. Especially when mixed in with the effects of the narcotics and his body's own strange, jittering reaction to such abuse-

For a split second Sherlock frowns, caught entirely off-guard by his feelings. By their… giddiness. Their visceral appeal and delight. And that doesn't happen often, to a man with a mind such as his. He doesn't permit it to.

So he does what he always does: He lashes out.

Makes a sarcastic, uncaring comment about Molly's broken engagement, the better to regain the upper hand with her. _The better to disavow his own reaction and force responsibility for it back onto her. _Molly stares at him in disgust. Anger. Orders him to take it back. Tells him what he's going to do-

And nobody, with the exception of his mother, has ever been permitted to do _that_.

So he refuses her. Gives her nothing but his silence. His contempt. Watches as she throws him a disgusted look and stalks- there really is no other word for it- to the other side of the room. _She seems to feel his mere nearness a contagion now_. John's yammering on about being able to talk with him, about how he shouldn't have gone anywhere near the drugs. As if, had Sherlock actually decided to go back to his addiction, he would have been so stupid as to use a crack house John might turn up at.

_As if he__'__d ever been the sort of addict who wanted to be caught._

But it doesn't matter, because Sherlock sees the way Molly's looking at him now that he's answered her back and he has to get out of there. He wants to take down Magnusson too, it's true, but more than that he wants out of that room. Out of that conversation. Out of that moment, where Molly Hooper will hit him and yell at him and make him feel… What?

_Guilt? Anger? Fear? Shame? _

_Some useless, adolescent combination of all three? _

No, the answer hits him square in the chest as soon as he exits the building: Desire. The thing he feels curling in his belly is desire. Desire Molly put there, desire for Molly herself. Desire that was ignited by the feel of that small, strong hand striking his face and the simple fact of that is absolutely confounding. Terrifying. So wholly unwelcome that he hasn't the words to articulate it, to himself or anyone else. Sherlock shakes his head, tries to calm himself. He can't stand the notion of anyone noticing how he's reacting to what she did. _It__'__s not- He__'__s not- __**They**__**'**__**re**__ not- _

_This is __**not**__ his area. _

_This is not something which happens to him, no matter what The Woman may have claimed._

But though he tells himself that it's the drugs talking, and tells himself that it's her frustration talking, and tells himself that it's the adrenaline of challenging Magnusson talking, he can't bring himself to believe it-

Eventually he manages to calm himself and heads for Baker Street, John in tow.

All the way there he feels the press of Molly's small, perfect hand against his face.

* * *

He falls into bed that afternoon, after having shuffled poor, normal, convenient Janine out of Baker Street and when he closes his eyes it's Molly's furious face he sees. Molly's furious face he _wants, _for all that he knows he should be focussing on Magnusson.

_Lady Smallwood is relying on him, after all_.

But though he knows where his attention should lie, it's Molly who monopolises it. Deep inside his Mind Palace she's telling him to apologise to the people who love him and with every strike of her hand he knows that she puts herself on that list. Puts herself at the top of that list.

_It__'__s such a comfort, being in a self-made darkness and knowing that she cares. _

So Sherlock lies in his bed, feeling the slow, trickling effect of the drugs leaving his system. As he does so he replays the scene again, over and over. Every inch of his Molly's reaction slowed and stroked and coaxed into blissfully overwhelming detail. Every timbre and cadence of her voice replayed for his pleasure, his and his alone. The mixture of it feels elating, invigorating. Sin in his veins and sin behind his eyes, in his eardrums. Sin underneath his finger-nails, in the very pores of his skin.

It feels almost like a new addiction, the same delight, the same shame in it. The same danger.

And just like his other cravings, he knows this one carries the capacity for annihilation in its very DNA.

* * *

He dreams of her again, when he's under in the hospital. Dreams of her talking to him, telling him he has to fight. Taking him through his being shot again, making him work out how he's going to survive. But these dreams don't stay like the ones in his mind palace; No, these become lazy. Dizzy. Intoxicating. _Safe. _They feel a little like being a high and a lot like being loved and Sherlock's not entirely sure which dismays him more-

Because both might prove lethal to the man he thinks he'll have to become to keep those he loves from harm.

When he wakes they flee, dismissed and then forgotten in the light of day and the flush of Mary's betrayal and his subsequent killing of Magnusson. He doesn't try to recall them- he won't even admit to them- for all that he wishes Molly would come to see him in hospital, or that he'd gotten a chance to see her before he turned murderer and was taken into custody. He would have liked to speak to her again.

It's a funny thing to report though: the night before he's about to go into exile, Sherlock thinks constantly about John and Mary and the child they'll be able to raise in safety now. The child who will never know him. But when he closes his eyes and falls asleep, it's Molly he dreams of. Molly slapping his face. Molly telling him there were people who loved him, telling him his gifts were beautiful and not cursed…

_He__'__s always known he was a freak, but if these are the terms of his aberration, he supposes they__'__re not so bad. _

He gets on Mycroft's plane the next day with John before his eyes and Molly behind them, and he never says a word about how much he understands just what he's leaving behind.


	2. Paragon

_Disclaimer: _This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to chibisiam, Poodle warriors, Bucky5, AJP910, kraftykathy and Rockin the Redhead. Hope you enjoy this too.

* * *

- **PARAGON -**

* * *

The next time it happens, it's after he and John and Mary have found her.

After the Moriarty Hoax has been solved, and Sherlock is welcome in England again.

She's in a hospital bed, recovering from the torture Moran put her through, her face bandaged up, her body attached to machine after machine and looking oh so fragile. Donovan's come and gone, taken a statement, and though the policewoman may not like Sherlock she shoots him her version of an understanding look when she encounters him in the hallway. Telling him she hopes Molly gets better soon. Telling him to give her the best from everyone in the Yard. For a moment after she leaves Sherlock stares after her, nonplussed. Surprised that Donovan should share such a sentiment with him, of all people-

But then he makes his way into Molly's room. Taps gingerly on the door- he's not sure why- and gently pushes it open.

He enters and he and Molly stare at one another, each opening their mouth and closing it like a fish's, unsure of what to say or do.

A beat, which seems to stretch out to forever. _And then_-

"Thank you," Molly says, at the same moment that Sherlock mutters, "I'm sorry."

They blink at one another, surprised. Molly opens her mouth again, perhaps to inquire what he's sorry about, perhaps to expand on why she's grateful, but the words don't come. Instead she looks away, pained. For a split second Sherlock is tempted to turn and run- _sentiment, what made him think he would be good with sentiment?- _but then he looks at her, lost and tiny and fragile in that bed and he comes to a decision. Sighs like a martyr and folds himself messily into the chair beside her.

Again Molly opens her mouth to speak, but he rushes to talk over her.

"I'm an arse for not explaining about Janine," he says, because he knows it's true. And he knows it's true because it's the first thing he realised when he thought he'd lost her. "I just- I didn't think it would go this far." He grimaces. "I _never _think anything will go this far."

Molly shrugs, trying, he can see, for nonchalance. She's not succeeding.

"You didn't need to tell me. We're not- I'm not-" She sighs again, looks away. Her hands are twisting and curling together against her sheets. "Are you ok?" she asks instead. "Did Moran-"

And she gestures to the single, miraculously minor, rather dashing cut across his cheek. Sherlock grimaces again.

"I'll be fine," he says. "Moran didn't have her hands on _me _for terribly long before John and Mary found us…"

And he trails off, some of the energy going out of him. He's never been good at small talk and he feels even less inclined towards it now. Besides finding Molly after Siobhán Ní Mhóráin, Moriarty's last, best, surviving Lieutenant had had a couple of hours to work on her is a sight he never wants to witness again, he doesn't care how many holes John shot in the bitch-

"Hey," Molly says, reaching out from the other side of the bed and trying to touch him. "Hey, it's not your fault. You weren't to know she was behind the Moriarty Hoax, not when you thought she was dead. And you weren't to know she'd drag me into it-"

"I'm aware of that!" Sherlock snaps. He is painfully conscious how defensive his voice sounds and he looks away moodily. Molly winces. "But that's not all I have to be sorry for, is it?" he says after a moment. Because he knows it's not. They both do.

He sees her expression shutter closed as she realises what he's talking about- it's not only that he didn't explain about Janine, it's that he started using again, started insulting her again- and though he knows he doesn't want to see her expression, Sherlock makes himself look at it all the same. He deserves at least a little punishment for all that he's done. He _always_ deserves punishment for the things he's done. And there's something so… reassuring about being punished, if it's by her. As if it reminds him that there's at least one person (who isn't now lost to him through marriage and a family) who'd give a toss if he fell off the face of the Earth.

So he makes himself look at Molly, really look at her. She's staring at him, her eyes wide and dark and there's something in them, something even he can't name. She licks her lips and he does the same, unconsciously mimicking her. That's not something he normally does- building rapport artificially comes easy, doing it instinctively does not- But though he knows it's unusual he still does it.

_And he finds he doesn__'__t have it in himself to care, he just wants to know what she__'__ll say._

For a few charged seconds Molly stares at him, the words dancing on the tip of her tongue, it seems. Sherlock leans forward and as he does her hand comes up. Strays to his cut cheek, the weight of it soft and warm. Insistent, somehow. Molly's not breathing now, and neither is he, which is most peculiar. He can't tell whether she's trying to push him away or make him feel closer. She strokes his cheek and he feels a twinge of pain as her thumb grazes his cut. Her eyes widen and she tries to move but he brings his hand up to stop her. Pressing her fingers into his flesh until the twinge worsens into a slight, sharp pain which, for some reason, feels awfully satisfying.

Sherlock's not sure why but he closes his eyes, a sharp breath hissing into him. He feels Molly go incredibly still and when he opens his eyes- he wants to know what's wrong- she's staring at him like she's never seen him before. There's… worry in her gaze, incomprehension, for all that he can see a sliver of diamond-sharp excitement too. A sliver of… acceptance? Curiosity? Arousal? flares in his belly, as if had that day in the morgue when she slapped him and he opens his mouth, wanting to say something but oddly helpless to know what-

Before either of them can speak however, John and Mary arrive, bearing flowers and chocolates and- a present from Mary- a collapsible baton for Molly.

She can't carry it in her purse, Mary points out, but she can keep it in her house.

"And if another arsehole tries anything, you can knock three shades of shit out of them, Mols," she says proudly. "See how they take _that_, the bastards-"

Molly murmurs her thanks, her gaze still locked on Sherlock. He is painfully aware of the Watsons' scrutiny, so before he can say anything else he stands to leave. It's only then that he realises Molly's hand is no longer at his face- so much for his observational skills. John and Mary's however would appear to be working just fine however, judging by the way they're staring at him as he makes his escape.

He doesn't hesitate and he doesn't look back until he's out of the Royal London Hospital and onto Whitechapel Road. He hails a taxi and wishes he had a cigarette. Tries not to think why his cheek is still burning.

_But that night__…__ Oh, that night the dreams start to come in earnest. _


	3. Straw

_Disclaimer: _This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to Katya Jade, lavanyalabelle, Rocking the Redhead, AJP910, Bucky5 and chibisiam. Please note that there is some mention of drug use and violent crime in this chapter... Stuff's about to start getting dark...

* * *

- **STRAW -**

* * *

He can't move. He can never move.

Sherlock twists, fights, tries to get loose. Adrenaline in pumping in his veins, ramping up his fight-or-flight response. Telling him that he should win, that he can win, that he can do this. That he can always do this, because he's Sherlock bloody Holmes and London is his manor, his town. _His home_.

He can see Magnusson in front of him, torturing John, poking and prodding at him like he's a specimen under a microscope and in that moment Sherlock knows what he's going to do, knows what he _has _to do. He has to stop Magnusson. He has to keep John safe. It doesn't matter what the cost will be, he has to make sure that this bastard will never have any true power over John Watson or Sherlock's family-

_Time to die, _Moriarty's voice whispers in his head.

_I said focus! _Molly's voice snaps.

There's a crack of sound, loud and obscene and far too close. A spray of wetness on the front of his clothes, his skin, and Sherlock knows only too well what that is. He stares at Magnusson's corpse seeing other shadows, other moments. Other opponents. He can feel his body seizing up, no longer his to master, the shock taking over -_Say you__'__re sorry, _Molly's voice snaps, as if from far away- _Say you__'__re sorry to all the people who love you- _

Her voice snaps through him like an electrical current, makes him jerk like a puppet on a string. Shivers go through him, hot and cold at the same time, laced with sweat and fever, but he just listens for Molly's voice. Her words. Listens and lets them soothe him into combat- Let's them lure him safely home-

He opens his eyes to an empty bed. An empty room. An empty flat.

For some reason he cannot fathom, his cheeks are wet.

The room is a blur, water-lashed and indistinct; He remembers Molly's hand upon his face, the sweet, swift pain of it and when he thinks on it he draws in a slow, shuddering breath. Curls in on himself, there in the dark, where there's nobody to see it. Where nobody's there to see either his weakness or his strength.

His chest loosens he knows that he will sleep again. Dream again.

She will be with him when he does.

* * *

This happens, over and over, in the weeks that follow. The nightmares get no better- in fact, they get worse, and when he gets high they become worse again. But though he knows he's in trouble, keeping the memory of Molly with him makes him feel like it's alright. Or, at least, that it might be. That it will be. Some day.

Molly is always _Some Day _to him.

* * *

The straw that breaks the camel's back is caused by, of all things, a mugging.

Molly's walking to the Tube and she's stopped. Yanked into an alley. Her wallet, her mobile phone and her credit-cards are all taken, and the only reason she gets home is that she calls Mary from inside St. Bart's and asks her for a lift. She doesn't expect Sherlock to be driving the car which picks her up, that's obvious from her expression when she sees him. But Sherlock has been trying, however ineptly, to repair their relationship and when Mary got the call while he and John were arguing over a case, he asked if he could take the car and pick Hooper up.

Well, at least that's the version he tells Molly.

The real version involves picking Mary's pocket and stealing her car keys, but he doesn't think anything would be served by speaking _that _version of the story aloud.

_And if Mary__'__s going to kill him over it, it__'__s best Molly doesn__'__t feel like an accessory after the fact. _

Though he sees her wince when she registers who's driving, he gamely hops out and opens the car-door for her. She slides inside, watching him warily, that enormous bag of hers held tight against her chest like a shield. _He supposes he shouldn't be surprised: they haven't spoken since the incident in his hospital room. He doubts either of them know what to say. _Sherlock retakes the wheel and slowly pulls out into traffic; this late in the evening even central London isn't entirely gridlocked, and he should have her home soon. He's about to remark on this but one look at Molly's pale, unhappy face puts laid to that notion.

Silence, total and smothering, reigns in the car instead.

For a while Sherlock is content to allow this, knowing as he does how dreary and useless small talk is. But after a few moments he finds that he doesn't like it, not when Molly's around. He's gotten to used to her cheerful chatter, and while he doesn't _listen_, per se, that doesn't mean he doesn't _enjoy_ it. As he once pointed out to John, there are certain people he keeps on mute; He doesn't block them out entirely. Mrs. Hudson is one of those people, and Molly Hooper… Molly Hooper is another.

_Molly Hooper, is in many ways, the exception that proves the rule._

Except now she really is being silent, and Sherlock's not at all sure what to do about that. So, in a rare feat of self-control, he keeps his mouth shut.

After about twenty minutes of this they reach Molly's Kilburn flat: She makes to open the car door but again Sherlock hops out, goes around and opens it for her. He's not sure why- _manners, habit, used to do it for Janine, _he muses, and my but he doesn't like the twinge of guilt thinking _that _brings to his chest.

Janine may have forgiven him but he's not sure anyone else has, least of all the readers of _The Daily Mail_.

Molly allows him to help her to here feet, moving the handbag away from its shielding position in front of her chest to do so. She exits the car and huffs up the three steps to her building while Sherlock trails behind and on the threshold of her flat she turns around. Nods to him.

"That's me home," she says. "Thank you for the lift, Sherlock."

_Unsaid but implied are the words, "you should go now."_

For a moment Sherlock is tempted to walk away, to allow her that control, but as he thinks that he feels something welling up inside him. Something which he first felt the day she slapped him in St. Bart's. It's the desire to push, the desire to make her react to him. This passivity is so bloody unnecessary, now he's seen what she can do. He wants her focus on him, he wants her to set this boundary. Whether she yells at him or let him inside, he wants her to bloody _choose. _

So without a word he bounds up the steps after her, takes her bag from her. Her key's already in the lock and he turns it, pushes the door open and gestures for her to enter. She narrows her eyes but does as he has indicated, never taking her eyes off him as she feels around easily for the light-switch. As soon as she's flicked it the room is bathed in brightness and as that happens, Sherlock sees her square her jaw. Suddenly she's determined.

"I'm in and home, Sherlock," she bites out tartly. "You've seen to it. Thank you for the lift. Goodnight."

And she pointedly gestures to the door. Her face pale, her cheeks two high spots of red, and Sherlock doesn't know why but he feels himself fixated by the sight.

He knows he shouldn't importune her, knows that he shouldn't push when she's made it clear that she wants him to leave, but he doesn't listen. _She can set the boundary. She can choose_. _She can choose for __**him**__._ So he walks over to her, there where she's standing beside the door. He towers over her, entering her personal space, wanting to see if she'll press herself back against the wall behind her or whether she'll stand her ground. He can never be sure these days, with Molly.

To his delight she doesn't move, just stares up at him through her lashes, those huge brown eyes wary and watchful and completely trained on him- Only on him. He reaches out to brush a stray strand of hair from her face and as he does so she moves out of his reach. Takes a step back. Suddenly there's disgust in her eyes again, as there was that day in St. Bart's.

"I've been mugged once, today, Sherlock," she says, and her voice is low and lovely and angry. "I don't feel like a repeat performance, ok?"

And she pushes past him, yanks the door open. As she does her coat gapes open slightly and underneath her shirt Sherlock sees bruises, not serious but enough to tell him where she was pressed. Held. Threatened. They took her mobile phone, her money. Did they shake her? Put their hands on her? Hurt her?

Suddenly he can't breathe.

So he nods and walks out of her flat, head down, that same terrible, hungry wanting stalking through his belly. He goes home that night. Gets high again, passes out on the sofa. He managed to hold out for a fortnight this time.

He tells himself nobody will know, that Mrs. Hudson will bring him his tea tomorrow morning and everything will be better.

It doesn't occur to him how those two thoughts are, by their nature, antithetical, until he hears the dulcet tones of John Watson yelling at him to, "wake the bloody Hell up."


	4. Happy

_Disclaimer: _This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Still not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. And thanks for their reviews go to Katya Jade, Rocking the Redhead, Monirosez, AJP910 and kraftykathy. Cheers.

* * *

- **HAPPY -**

* * *

Molly is woken the next morning by a call from John Watson.

Though he sounds extremely sorry, he wants her to come into St. Bart's and perform another drugs test on Sherlock. The detective is insisting on it. Loudly.

(She can tell- Sherlock's voice is clearly audible in the background, abusing the Queen's English and his astonishing vocabulary to all and sundry.)

Molly looks at the phone and flops onto her back. Sighs. She feels so tired, and she doesn't want to get out of bed and go into work to test a man she's currently so angry at. A man who tried to play her yesterday, though God knows why. For pity's sake, she'd been mugged. That bloke in the hoodie yanked her into an alley, slammed her against a wall and threatened her as he took her phone and wallet. He'd held her by the throat, a knife at her side; There had even been a horrible moment when she'd thought he wouldn't only be satisfied with her money, an experience all too common when you're built like a hobbit and have the voice of a mouse-

_It had been horrible, just awful, and she __**deserves**__ her day off, _she thinks angrily. _She deserves a day not looking after Sherlock bloody Holmes. _

And yet-

For a moment she closes her eyes, imagines giving in. Imagines seeing Sherlock again, high as a kite and probably just as disrespectful as he was to her yesterday. Staring at her. Entering her personal space. Pushing her for…something (she has no idea what, and she doubts he does either). _He doesn__'__t have the right to do that_, she thinks angrily. Not when he's spoken to her a mere handful of times in the last nine months. Not when he disappeared from her morgue after his drugs scare, apparently never to return. Not when he hasn't made an effort at all since that morning when he came to see her in the hospital and he pressed her hand to his hurt face and scared her, though she can't imagine why, half to death.

_No, _she thinks, _after that she doesn__'__t owe Sherlock Holmes anything at all. _

So she informs John, politely but firmly, that she will not be rousing herself to go in and do another favour for Sherlock Holmes. It is only with great difficulty that she keeps herself from openly vowing never to do him a favour again. (No point in making a promise she's not sure she can keep).

She tells John that she knows that this will make his life more difficult- she has seen Sherlock's temper tantrums, has even been on the receiving end of them, and she knows they are epic- but John is an adult and he will be fine. After all, he's the only person she's ever seen manage to curb one of Sherlock's behaviours. And he's been to war. And he's married to Mary, which makes him tougher than most she's met-

"It's ok, Molly," he says, speaking over her. His tone is understanding. "You don't need to justify not coming in; I told him you wouldn't AND YOU BLOODY WELL SHOULDN'T." This last bit is yelled to someone over the other side of the room, doubtless Sherlock. "He just wouldn't bloody shut up until I called. Which I have. So he can STOP COMPLAINING AND BEHAVE-"

This last is also directed away from the phone towards Sherlock, and Molly can only theorise that Holmes' riposte wasn't verbal since she doesn't hear it.

More than likely it involved the middle finger of his writing hand.

Molly chews her lip though, dismissing _that _mental image. She shouldn't ask this, but… "Is he alright?" she asks quietly.

She wants to know, even if she doesn't want to see him. Even if she doesn't think she can handle it right now.

"Oh, he's fine," John says tightly. "Charming, even. Like a little, stoned ray of bloody sunshine." As he speaks Molly can hear his annoyance growing, and underneath that, as ever, John's worry. Sherlock sounds like he's complaining in the background.

"I just found him with the injection case out on the couch this morning, sitting in his lap," John's saying. "The needle was all but in his arm. He's swearing blind he didn't take anything, but I could see it'd been used, so I dragged him in-"

Molly hears Sherlock's muffled voice on the other end of the line once more, yelling that John had not dragged him anywhere, and she winces. He sounds so angry.

Worry and anger, the usual accompaniments to a situation involving Sherlock, start worming their way through _her_ chest now.

Why does she let him bring it out in her?

"But you're sure he's using- I mean, he's bad-tempered usually," she says. "Though I suppose he hasn't been right since that business with Moran- Before that even, since that business with Magnusson…" _And the thing with Janine__…__ And your wedding__…__ And his return from the dead__…__ And the Fall__…_

Now she's thinking about it, Sherlock Holmes has had quite the string of traumatic experiences in the last few years. The fact that he courts danger doesn't mean he never feels the consequences of it.

It just often means that he never admits to it.

But John's talking. "Believe me, he took something," he says, and his tone brooks no argument. "If you'd heard him rambling on this morning, you'd have known he was off his head. He was even talking about you-"

There's a sudden scuffling sound and Molly hears a thump, as if John's dropped his phone. Again she hears muffled voices on the other end of the line, yelling this time. John hisses a couple of choice swear words and then a door bangs. The phone's picked up. Clearly the fight has come to an end, because she can hear someone breathing heavily on the other end of the line.

For a split second there's silence as Molly tries to think of something comforting to say to John about the argument he's (presumably) just had with Sherlock. But then-

"Molly?"

It's Sherlock's voice. It sounds… He sounds hesitant. Shy, almost.

Unbidden an image pops into her mind, a hallway in a suburban house, the flash of a tiny diamond ring on her finger. _Mind the gap. _Sherlock's saying he wants her to be happy, that she deserves to be-.

_If only she could believe it. _

Molly is tempted for a moment not to answer- After all, she is still angry with him. But if he's in trouble… If he wants to speak with her so much that he took John's phone… Maybe he wants to say something to her, the thing he wanted to say to her yesterday. So-

"Hello, Sherlock," she says softly.

She doesn't know why, but suddenly she feels a little shy herself.

She's horrified by this development: Anger was much easier.

Silence. For once she suspects Sherlock and she are doing equal amounts of squirming. But then- "How are you feeling?" he asks, and it's peculiar, his tone. Almost like he's embarrassed that he wants to know her state. Or maybe he's embarrassed he can't remember, can't guess. Maybe he's just frustrated at a half-done deduction.

Inwardly Molly shrugs: With Sherlock, anything's possible.

"I'm ok," she says stiffly. "I slept alright, considering. I was rather hoping- Well, I thought Mary would bring me some painkillers. And some food. But I got by. And I'll go down to the shops later-"

She doesn't need to add that her lack of medication was Sherlock's fault. She doesn't need to point out that he upset her when she didn't want or need to be upset. Sherlock's not great with people but even he'll get so pointed a reference.

And she knows she could have not said it, but she made the choice to say it out loud.

She needed to.

There's a slight hiss on the other end of the phone and she almost imagines Sherlock's wincing. She braces herself, waiting for him to unleash something- probably a particularly vicious deduction- on her but for once the stream of words don't come.

"I am sorry," Sherlock says instead, and oh but the words sound heart-wrung. Desolate. She has never before heard him mumble. "You wanted Mary and you got me- Presumably you wanted some sort of... Comfort when you rang, a thing I am completely incapable of providing." He pauses, puffs out a breath. "I just- I wanted to make sure you were alright." Another pause. "I always want to know whether you're alright."

The words are said so low she barely hears them.

His tone slides down her spine, raking and twisting at her emotions. Her insides are wrenched with it. Wretched with it. _Why does he __**always**__ bloody do this to her? _Suddenly Molly can't breathe, her throat tightening. She tells herself that it's some sort of delayed shock from the mugging yesterday, but she knows deep down that it's not.

She cried at what happened yesterday, but she knows it's not why she wants to cry now.

She doesn't want to ask the next question, not really. She's been practicing all this time, getting Sherlock out of her system. It's why she never challenged his pulling away, he wasn't willing to chase after him. She was tired of it. So tired, after all it's cost her. But if he's using again… If he wants to talk to her again…

She has the right to walk away, she knows that.

But having a right and being obliged to exercise it are two different things.

So she takes a deep breath, tries to force the sudden lump in her throat down. "Are you ok?" she asks, and she knows he hears her. Maybe she'd known, deep down, that he wanted her to ask that yesterday, but she really hadn't been able to. She hadn't been capable of, of taking care of Sherlock Holmes.

_And that's all he's ever asked her to do. _

Sherlock sighs. "I am… That is to say, I think I may not be… I might not be in a good place, isn't that the phrase people use?"

And he gives this little laugh, which should sound careless but doesn't. No, it sounds absolutely heartbreaking.

Molly squeezes her eyes shut. Takes a deep breath at it. She knows, somehow, that she's going to regret this but still-

"What do you need?" she asks quietly. "What do you need from me?"

Her own voice sounds hopeless as she says it, but she still manages to get the words out.

There's a massively long pause on the other end of the line, nothing but the sound of breathing. Heavy breathing. She has the oddest feeling Sherlock's afraid to speak to her, which must surely be a first. But then-

"I need you to be happy, Molly Hooper," he says, so quietly. "I suspect you have a gift for it, a gift you don't get to exercise."

And then he hangs up the phone, without so much as a goodbye. For a moment the flat feels horribly quiet.

Molly's on her feet and halfway dressed by the time she's called a cab to her door.


	5. Transport

_Disclaimer: _This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta-read, so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to Emma Lynch, AJP910, Bucky5, Katya Jade, Rocking the Redhead, kraftykathy and Sara Dobie Bauer. Things are about to get a little darker, but in my defence, please remember that Sherlock is stoned throughout this chapter. And that there is a point to it, however dark this appears. That said, enjoy.

* * *

- **TRANSPORT -**

* * *

Molly rings John's phone three times on the cab-ride to St. Bart's.

Nobody answers.

She rings Sherlock's mobile but only gets through to Mrs. Hudson, who tells her that Sherlock's out and must have forgotten his phone. She's thinking of calling the newspapers, she jokes nervously, it's that much of a shock.

Going by the older woman's guilty, disconcerted tone Molly suspects that she witnessed whatever went on between Sherlock and John in Baker Street this morning. _In fact, she probably broke it up_. But though she wants to ask her about it, she doubts it would be pleasant for Martha. Or herself. So she leaves it be.

_Leaving it be seems to be something she__'__s good at_, she thinks darkly as the cab winds through the late morning traffic towards its destination.

The traffic is heavy and the journey seems to be taking hours, but Molly can't sit still in her seat. She's not even certain what's bothering her, truth be told, other than that weird tone in Sherlock's voice. It sounded almost…hopeless, and that's something she's never heard from him before. Even the night he sat her down and they planned his fall he hadn't sounded so desolate as he had this morning, and then he'd been perfectly sober-

An image pops into her mind, him that morning she slapped him in St. Bart's. The dismissiveness in his tone, the sarcasm. That weird energy that pressed between then like a reversed magnetic field. She sees blue smudges under those brilliant eyes, vicious and dark as bruises. Lank hair and pale pallor, his body as thin as a ghost.

_Is this really the man you're spending half your bloody paycheque rushing into London to see? _A voice inside her head asks tartly, but Molly pushes it away.

She doesn't want to listen. She _never _wants to listen, when it comes to Sherlock.

_And the wonder of why Tom dumped you deepens_, this inner snaps caustically.

It takes her a moment to realise that the voice she's hearing is Sherlock's own.

By this time though, the cab is nearly at St. Bart's and she realises she'll need to work out where Sherlock is- She doesn't even know where he was calling from. She pulls up the number for the front desk and asks to be put through to Ibrahim, the morning security guard. She then asks him to confirm whether Sherlock Holmes is in St. Bart's or not.

Ibrahim tuts as he confirms that yes, the "skinny wanker," is indeed in Lab 5- "You want me to remove him, Dr. Hooper?" he asks in the vaguely longing tone of someone who's spent too much time stopping Sherlock Holmes from making off with body parts. Molly however tells him no, it's alright. The detective has her permission to be there.

"I just wanted to make sure he wasn't bothering anyone else," she says, wincing at the unconvincing way the words come out.

"I didn't say _that_," Ibrahim snickers, "He's stuck with Martin and the poor blighter doesn't look happy about it. You want me to patch you through to the Lab's landline and you can hear for yourself?"

Molly balks. "No, that's alright. I'm nearly there in anyways." And she thanks him, shakes her head to herself as she hangs up. Imagining poor Martin Aiken, the missing link between human and giraffe and so nervous around living patients that he ended up in the morgue, trying to handle a stoned Sherlock Holmes.

_Clearly what I'm doing is a kindness if it gets the poor boy away from him, _she tells herself. _I'm performing a necessary evil. _

_Lying to yourself like this is tiresome, Molly_, that sarcastic voice sounds again, and Molly's not sure whether it should worry her, that she's apparently internalised Sherlock's criticism to this degree.

_It doesn't seem the sort of thing which would help you have a happy life._

Not that she can dwell on that though, because by this time she's made it St. Bart's. She pays the cabbie the (truly horrifying) fare and then darts into the building, nodding to Ibrahim as she pushes into the restricted section of the hospital. In her haste she forgot her name-badge and pass and she has to rely on friends using theirs to let her through, but in what feels like no time at all she's in front of Lab 5, staring at the pale white door.

She's darted and skidded and ducked and dived to get here, but now suddenly- Suddenly she feels like she's rooted to the spot.

For a moment, in fact, she's tempted to just turn around and walk away. Nobody would ever know, at least that's what she tells herself. But then- "I told you, Sherlock, she's not coming," John's voice sounds, and as she watches he yanks the door open, obviously about to march from the premises. He glances up to see her standing there, looking, she suspects, like a rabbit caught in a car's headlights, and as he does so John lets out a long string of choice swear words, most of them aimed at his best friend. Some of them probably foreign in origin. All of them proof that he definitely spent a long time in the army.

Sherlock appears, head looking over John's shoulder and once that happens, John's tirade fades into insignificance. Everything fades into insignificance.

Suddenly, Molly feels like she can't breathe.

For a split second their eyes meet and it's like they're back in the Lab that morning she did his drugs test again. It's like they're in her hospital room after her run-in with Moran, her hand pressed tight to his face. Without really giving herself permission to, Molly walks forward. She barely registers John moving out of the way as she enters the Lab. Takes off her coat, leaves her bag on a chair to her right. Her eyes never leave Holmes. Sherlock backs up as she moves towards him, keeping the same amount of distance between them, almost as if that magnetic field were back between them again. Almost as if… Almost as if he's afraid to be near her.

His gaze is terribly intent.

"How far have you gotten with the test?" Molly asks, and though she knows her words are for John, or even for Martin (if he's still here) her gaze doesn't stray from the patient.

He stares back at her with unfathomable, unreadable eyes. Swallows. It doesn't happen often, but he looks… nervous.

Suddenly she's not happy she's here.

"Martin's in the back, running it now," John supplies, when it becomes clear Sherlock isn't going to. "He's perfectly capable- God, Molly, you shouldn't have come in…"

"I wanted to." Molly knows that she should say something else, but she can't. Her tongue's tied. Now that she's looking at Sherlock, now that she sees he's alive and well and might even be sober soon, the terror which had gripped her when he spoke to her on the phone seems silly.

_He's fine, _she thinks._ He's __**always**__ fine. He's made a bloody career out of it_.

_And you've made a career out of dropping everything for him the moment he whistles a chipper tune, you idiot. _

But then he moves forward suddenly, jerkily, standing until he's right in her face, just as he was yesterday in her front room. She blinks up at him as he stares and then, very slowly, he takes her hand and presses it against his wrist. His pulse is thready, uneven. It gallops. She has no doubt this is an effect of whatever he's taken and this close she can see that his pupils are slightly dilated. His tongue wets his lip. The blue of his eyes looks electric.

No, she definitely can't breathe.

Slowly, carefully, he takes her fingers, threads his own through them. Pushes at his open shirt sleeve with them, not saying a word, and all the time his gaze is riveted on her. It's as if the rest of the world has ceased to exist for him. Molly looks down, unable to take the weight of that stare. She sees the blue of his veins, forking through his wrist, seawater against the white foam of his flesh. She feels his breath against her cheek, feels it slightly displace her loose hair, almost as if… Almost as if…

_If they were lying together in the dark they might breathe in time, _she thinks_, just like this_.

And then he's pushing the shirt fabric farther, up towards his elbow, pressing so that her fingers trail over his veins, slide over the gentle slope of his inner arm. His bicep. She shivers in sympathy at the caress. The human body's so delicate.

"You see?" he asks, and his voice is low. It rumbles. Makes her shiver though she knows she should not, but then she's always known that with him.

Molly shakes her head. "I don't-" She looks up at him, frowning. "Why do you need me to see this?" she asks. "Is it- Is it to prove you haven't been injecting for long? That you don't have track marks?"

Very vaguely, from very far away, she thinks she hears John mutter, "Jesus Christ, Sherlock," but it doesn't seem important right now.

Holmes merely nods though. His look is thoughtful. Intense. "I don't- It's only surface," he tells her. "The body's only transport, it doesn't matter what you do with it."

And then his other hand snakes up her back, tracing the pattern of bruises her attacker left on her yesterday.

He must have only gotten a brief glimpse, but his fingers touch each one. It is a small but significant hurt.

"We're the same on the surface," he murmurs, and now he's leaned down. The words are said directly into her ear. Contorted as their position is, it feels almost like an embrace. _Almost_. "We're… transport, it's all transport, Molly," he whispers.

She can feel his lips against her skin. It feels very, very good.

And then suddenly, without any warning whatsoever, he moves. Gently presses his mouth to the spot above the worst of her bruises from the mugging, his lips kissing her through both the fabric of her shirt and her bra strap to brand heat into her. Inside of her. His other arm wrapping around her, pulling her to him far too quickly and far too tightly. His greater height crowding her, making her seem small- helpless- and Molly does not like that at all. For a moment she's back in that alley, tiny and vulnerable against someone who wants to take those few things that belong to her. Her body reacts instinctively and she moves, pushes him away.

She has no idea what he's doing or why, all she can feel is bewilderment that he'd do such a thing, to her of all people.

_Why would he want to kiss something that hurts? _she wonders, rattled.

_It's not like he'll be trying to make it better._

She scrambles back across the lab, her hands held in front of her. Sherlock follows and without hesitation she reaches out. Pushes him. He stumbles backwards and crashes into one of the examination tables with a horrible, loud clatter. He falls, his entire weight slamming him into the cold metal and he lets out a small hiss of pain. But then he's back on his feet and again he's coming back towards Molly. She steps behind another examination table, keeping it between them-

"That's enough, Sherlock," John says and suddenly he's in front of his friend.

He has him by the arms and he's staring at him like he's never seen him before. Molly shakes her head, her pulse hammering.

For some reason she doesn't really want to examine she thinks that she might cry.

Sherlock makes a half-hearted push against John but the doctor isn't budging an inch and he apparently knows it. He subsides after a moment.

What's truly disturbing though is the look of peace Molly can see in his eyes as John holds him in place.


	6. Hawks

_Disclaimer: _This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta-read, so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to LadyK1138, Emma Lynch, Katya Jade, coloradoandcolorado1, Rocking the Redhead, Bucky5 and kraftykathy. More darkness ahead, you have been warned.

* * *

**- HAWKS -**

* * *

He subsides, after that.

Allows himself to be put in a corner, sat on a God-awfully uncomfortable chair and made await the results of his drugs test. Gaze looking inwards, face as blank as a coma victim. His stillness almost loud in this ever-still room. John sits down beside him, looking like nothing so much as the overly harassed mother of a small child. Every so often he attempts to coax his friend into conversation but it doesn't work and despite everything Molly can't help but feel that that may be a blessing.

_There may not be any more to be said for today, _she muses.

So she sits in the opposite corner, as far away from the two men as she can, and tries not to watch Sherlock's every move from the corner of her eye, something at which she is entirely unsuccessful. But then, he gave her such a fright just now that she can't help it: It's wired into her, a Darwinian inheritance. This need to keep the biggest predator in the room within your sight, even if you can't decide whether you're furious with him or heartbroken.

_Though, one way or another, a predator is what he seems to her now, little as she likes to admit it. _

Molly rises at the thought, goes to the water-cooler in her office. Pours herself a drink and then retakes her seat. Her throat is dry. Sherlock's eyes, she swears, follow her as she does it, for all that they are shut when she turns to look at him.

It makes her feel scrutinised in a way she never has before.

She's not entirely certain she likes it. Or that she doesn't. She really wishes her heart would make up its mind.

Not that she wants to dwell on that, not while she's waiting for the results of the test. In some ways it's a non-event: It's obvious to her that Sherlock's high. Even now, his eyes closed in apparent contentment, there's a… threading, needy buzz to his stillness which she's never seen before. Added to how he's been behaving today and the conclusion is inescapable- But she still needs proof. She needs to see it.

And that's why she's still here, she tells herself, despite the fact that, given Sherlock's behaviour earlier, nobody would have blamed her for running for the hills.

Well, that's not quite true, she knows. _She_ would have blamed her for running, no matter how good an idea it seems_. _Worrying as that thought is, however, she finds that she doesn't want to leave, for all that she's nervous around him now. The import of what that says about her is something Molly is singularly unwilling to examine at the moment.

_No, _she thinks darkly_, tonight when I'm lying in bed unable to sleep will be a __**great**__ time to try working my way through that. _

The soft buzz of John's text alert sounds then and the doctor looks at his phone, stands and goes to the lab door. He pulls it open and Mary steps inside, her hair damp and her clothes spattered with rain. She's carrying a tray of coffee and a bag of Tesco pastries and as she hands John his she presses a small kiss to his cheek, her (now-free) hand straying down to brush sympathetically with his palm before she pulls away and makes her way over to Sherlock.

The gesture is small, insignificant, but Molly feels a small stab of regret at seeing it.

Nine months on from Tom and being around happy couples still hurts the tiniest bit, something which makes her feel like the world's biggest bitch.

Again, she elects not to dwell on that.

Instead she watches as Mary puts a slightly battered croissant and a paper cup of coffee beside Sherlock's elbow. The blond woman fishes around in the bag and produces several packs of sugar and a stirrer, her gaze still focused on the detective; Her look is sharp, incisive. It seems to take in everything about him, reminding Molly of a hawk.

When she returns to her husband though, a coffee and an apple danish in her hand for Molly, she's as friendly and familiar as ever. The transformation is… surprising.

"Mind palace?" she says to Molly and John. The latter nods distractedly.

"Mind palace, magical mystery tour, the halls of bloody Valhalla. Who the hell knows, when he's like this?"

And he shakes his head, his brows pulled together and mouth twisted as he takes a sip of his coffee. He hisses as if it burns him.

The look of worry on his face sets something angry and reckless loose in Molly- It's hard seeing your own, most secret feelings, being displayed by another. It makes her teeth clench, and she has to force herself to tamp her feelings down. She's still not ready to deal with them.

The silence ticks out.

Mary smiles though, murmurs to John to go back to his friend and sits down beside Molly instead. She smiles gamely and holds up her coffee-cup in mock salute. Molly does likewise.

"Welcome to the joys of parenthood, Mols," she mutters dryly. "This one's harder to keep a hold of than the baby." She leans in conspiratorially. "I think it's because he can already walk, even if he's having trouble teething-"

From across the room, John throws her an unimpressed glare, ignoring her snicker. "He is not a toddler, Mary," he points out irritably. "And we are not Sherlock Holmes' parents."

"Then what are you doing here?" Sherlock asks, his voice making Molly jump in its suddenness. The tone is mocking, his face still pensive. When he opens his eyes they are clearer though, more focused than they have been in a while.

Something in Molly unclenches a little, to see it.

John is glowering at his friend. "I'm here because you dragged me into this, Sherlock," he points out tartly. "You knew I was coming around this morning- You insisted on it. You wanted a hand with the Devere case, you said. You wanted to see me, to discuss something with me, you said.

Which means that when you set out your little scene last night, you had a fairly good idea who would find you and what would happen-"

"Please spare me the psychobabble, John." The tone is superior. Aloof. He must be coming back to his old self, Molly thinks. _She never thought she'd be happy to see him acting like an arsehole. _"I had merely intended to take the edge off a very difficult day," he's saying, "and things went a little… awry. No need for all these theatrics-"

"Theatrics?" John demands. "Theatrics? You want to talk about theatrics?"

Sherlock merely cocks one snide, delicate eyebrow.

Given John's reaction, the irony is too obvious to need stating.

Mary, like any good mother, rolls her eyes derisively in response.

John elects to ignore both of them however. "Fine then, little miss drama queen," he snaps, "if you have no interest in theatrics, how about you explain to me why you're doing this? Why you set this whole thing up- In fact, why you even let me catch you in that crack-house when we went for Isaac? Why it was _my _wife's car keys you stole to come see Molly?"

Sherlock scowls at this question but John presses on.

It's a rare thing, but he knows he has Sherlock on the ropes.

"That's right," he says. "Don't have an answer to that, do you? The great Sherlock bloody Holmes can't explain why his massive intellect didn't figure out a way to keep this under the radar. And that's because you don't _want _to keep it under the radar, you git. You want us to know, you want everyone to know and you want us to help you-"

"I don't want help." The words are snapped. Spit. The tone is belligerent. "I don't _need _help, least of all yours, _daddy _dear." He turns a sneering, mocking smirk on John. "Besides, haven't you got an actual child you should be watching over, instead of playing cowboys and Indians with me?" He wrinkles his nose. "Or are you still in the throes of that midlife crisis of yours? Is that why you're seeing problems with everyone except yourself?"

In one clear, fluid motion, both men come nose to nose. The tension is palpable.

John's glaring up at Sherlock but this time… This time it feels like there's something dangerous in it.

Molly feels it then, fells something almost imperceptible move through Mary. Suddenly that hawk-like intensity is back as she looks at her husband and his best friend, and Molly can't help but suspect that she is witnessing a mother protecting her brood- her mate- from harm.

For a split second, it feels almost like Molly doesn't know Mary at all. For a split second, it feels like there's another predator in the room. But then-

"Well, if that's how you feel then we can leave," John says tightly. "You're right: I do have an actual child I should be losing sleep over."

His expression is furious but Molly can see the hurt underneath it. John has a kind heart, for all that he's nobody's fool, and Molly suspects his friend has just bruised it.

She just hopes the damage isn't permanent.

John glances at Mary and she nods imperceptibly to him. Smiles at Molly. "Seems I'm taking this to go," she says, "want a lift, Mols?"

And she smiles sunnily, as if nothing is the matter.

It surprises Molly, how little the tension in the room seems to be effecting her.

At these words Sherlock's head flicks up though, his expression suddenly unsure. Vulnerable. His eyes dart to Mary but she shakes her head.

"You're on your own with this one, Sherlock," she says evenly. "I'm with John. And Molly. And your family." She shrugs. "Might want to have a think about that line-up, before you start down this road, but that's just my take."

And with that she takes out her car keys- "Just checking, given yesterday," she says lightly- and then John pulls open the door to Lab 5. He looks at Molly expectantly and she rises to her feet.

"I'll have Martin text me the results of the drug-test," she says uncertainly. "You- You take care of yourself, Sherlock."

He's staring at her still. It's a physical weight on her skin.

"Give my regards to Mycroft," Mary adds but John remains silent. Stubbornly so.

Neither man will meet the other's eye, something Molly has never seen before.

And then, without her really willing it she's out of the lab and making her way to the car park. She knows that she could- perhaps should- stay, but she's a little frightened to be alone in that room with this new Sherlock Holmes. She can't help but worry about what he might do. To her. To himself. To everyone. She doesn't want to witness _that. _So she leaves, repeating her offer to Mary (knowing that John will hear) regarding Martin texting her Sherlock's results as they make their way to the hospital car-park.

"Send the on to me and I'll pass them along to Mycroft," Mary tells her. "John's already been in touch, haven't you love?"

The doctor merely grunts in response and gets into the driving seat.

Mary gives him the tiniest little look of surprise and then subsides, helping Molly pile into the back and taking her place beside John.

They are silent all the way back in the car, John occasionally swearing at the traffic but saying nothing else.

* * *

Martin does text Molly Sherlock's results later on. He tested positive for cocaine. This was not a surprise.

Molly passes these results on to John for Mycroft but it turns out not to matter: By the time she gets them Sherlock has gone back to Baker Street, taken a set of clean clothes and then all but disappeared off the face of the Earth.

He's gone for a month this time, a month of sleepless nights and worried phone-calls, before he shows up on her doorstep.

And when he does, oh when he does he is so very different.

It makes the tension of dealing with his drugs test seem like a walk in the bloody park.


	7. Threshold

_Disclaimer: _This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Given a quick look over by the ever-lovely Katya Jade. Thanks for their reviews go to LadtK1138, Katya Jade, Emma Lynch and Rocking the Redhead. More darkness ahead- Enjoy.

* * *

- **THRESHOLD -**

* * *

She finds him- surprise, surprise- in her bed.

It's the tail-end of a fourteen hour shift and her bones are aching, her eyes nearly drooping shut from tiredness, so of course when she tries to crawl underneath her covers she finds them occupied by six foot nothing of consulting detective.

_Given the day she__'__s had, _she muses, _she really should have expected nothing less. _

He looks filthy, haggard. Every inch of him is covered in dirt and muck, and beneath that she can trace evidence of a healing black eye. A split lip. Bruises across his cheekbones, blackness at the bridge of his nose. There's dried blood across his forehead though none is matted in his hair. It's the stench which hits her hardest though, the stench which first gave him away; Both Mycroft and John assumed that he'd been living rough all this time so as soon as she smelt it she thought he might have come to call on her. She'd hoped he had.

_She__'__s not sure where he__'__s been sleeping, _she thinks, _but it smells like a brewery. _

She stares down at his sleeping face now, slack and youthful in repose and something, some hateful, clenching _thing _which has been clawing at her insides for a month loosens. She physically slackens with the loss of it, anger and relief and happiness twisting together in her chest.

And then, unable to help herself, she hesitantly brushes a lock of hair back from his face.

She knows she shouldn't, knows she has no idea what he might do when he wakes up, which version of him she might have to deal with. But she can't help it.

_She never can, she knows, not when it comes to Sherlock Holmes. _

For moment she fears she'll wake him but he doesn't move. His breathing remains even. So she forces down a lump in her throat and pads into the kitchen. Takes her mobile phone out, texts John to let him know Sherlock is at her place. That he appears to be ok even if he has been injured. She doesn't know whether John will still be awake to get the message but she hopes to save him another sleepless night. And this way, at least she won't wake the baby.

_After all, John Watson now has other responsibilities besides the great Sherlock Holmes. _

She stares at the phone, watching the text send, and when she looks up Sherlock is looking blearily at her, silhouetted in the doorway to her bedroom. His hair standing up every which way, his features lax from sleep. He rubs at his right eye with the heel of his hand and thumb, the gesture oddly… vulnerable, and Molly feels a jolt of that same anger-and-relief-and-happiness emotion twisting inside her as he does it.

A moment of awkward silence stretches out between them, as if both wish to speak but neither knows what to say.

Sherlock breaks it.

"You're texting John," he says. His voice in flat. Uninflected. As he speaks the look on his face turns guarded and that tightness in Molly's chest returns, just a notch.

She nods. "He'll want- both he and Mary will want to know. That, you know, you're ok. And here. And not sleeping rough somewhere…" _Or dead in a ditch somewhere… _

She trails off, her arms wrapping about herself without her consciously telling them to.

Suddenly she becomes aware that her heating went off ages ago; She wishes she could sit down but she seems rooted to the spot she's standing on.

Sherlock stares at her impassively, his eyes giving nothing away.

"Ah yes," he says after a moment of this expectant silence. "Your bed. I was going to sleep on the sofa but I'm so tall…"

And he shuffles his feet awkwardly, the way he does when he's realised he's done something a Bit Not Good. An odd shyness flickers over his face as he speaks; It doesn't look to Molly like it belongs there. Again, she can't help feeling that he looks awfully young.

"I can… That is to say," he corrects himself, "I'll take the couch. You can have your bed back-"

"There's no need-"

"There's every need-"

She doesn't want to say this but she's too tired to think of a way around it. So she's blunt. She _does _sometimes do that. "The sheets will need to be changed," she says flatly, "they'll be filthy and they'll-"

She sees understanding light his eyes. "And they'll smell. Be bloodied. Because I am."

He says it without the slightest trace of guilt or rancour. After all, he _has _been living rough for a month. And Molly hopes he knows her better than to think she'd judge.

She winces but nods. "I just… It's been a long night. I just want to drop off to sleep and I don't want to have to change the linens, or, or do anything, really," she says. "I'm small, I can sleep on the couch…" Sherlock's looking at her oddly, intently, and it's making her babble. She really wishes she wouldn't. "So you just go back to sleep and I'll- I'll settle myself here…"

He takes a small step towards her, his head dipped almost diffidently.

He stops when he's a little away from her, not crowding her as he has the last two times they've met.

She can tell by the determined look on his face that he's done it on purpose and she feels a small stab of gratitude that he's at least trying for her. She knows it doesn't come easy to him.

"Molly, would you like to sleep in your bed?" he asks quietly. His voice has the oddest quality to it, deep and clipped and rumbling. It seems to stroke across her skin.

She nods. Gulps. And then nods again. _Where the Hell has her voice gone? _She wonders. Not that Sherlock notices; his eyes are now fixed on the coffee table in the centre of the room.

"And would you like me to- That is, it can't be pleasant," he's saying. "Having someone in your presence who's- Well, I mean, I would imagine a shower would be a good idea, wouldn't it?"

The words come out tentative, almost hopeful, for no reason Molly can fathom.

He's staring at her now from beneath his lashes, the closest to nervous he's ever been around her, and it is the most damningly handsome thing she is ever seen him do.

So she nods again. Gulps again. The room suddenly feels very, very still and Sherlock feels very, very near. Almost overpowering, but not in the scary way he was last time, although how long that will last is anybody's guess. When she looks up he's smiling though, a small, bright thing that she doesn't think she's ever seen from him before. Her reaction is entirely instinctual; She smiles right back.

"A shower would be a good idea," she tells him and oh but he looks happy with that.

His smile widens and he steps towards the door of the bathroom. His tread is lighter now.

"Good, I'll do that then." Something flickers through his eyes, something Molly recognises. It looks almost like that moment in her hospital bed, after the Moran Incident, when Sherlock pressed her hand to his face until it hurt him. "And when I come out I'll make the bed. You can… You can supervise. If it meets with your approval, you can sleep in it." He nods to himself staunchly. "I'll- That is, I'll wake you if you fall back asleep. I'll just…"

The tips of his ears turn pink and rather than make him finish his sentence she goes to the hot-press. Takes out two clean towels and hands them to him. Their fingers brush against one another as he takes them from her arms and now- _oh, joy-_ the tips of her ears match his.

_And here, I__'__d missed turning into a jabbering idiot every time he__'__s around, _she thinks dryly. He doesn't seem to notice though.

"Do you have any preference as to which one I use?" he asks, gesturing to the towels, and it seems an odd question to Molly. There's something so… insistent about the way he phrases it.

She frowns and tells him as much but he shrugs.

"I shall improvise then," he says, and with that he turns on his heel and makes for the bathroom. He pauses at the threshold and turns to look at her. His eyes are bright with intent and for a moment the Sherlock from St. Bart's, from the drugs tests, is back in the room.

That tightness within Molly cinches another inch.

"I'm not high, or rather I soon won't be," he says softly, "if that's worrying you." Molly opens her mouth to deny it but then thinks better of it. He'd probably see her lie, after all. "I just- I don't think I should be alone at the moment," he says softly, "and I didn't- I didn't want to bother John-"

"Not with the baby?" Molly guesses, and he nods to her.

Suddenly he looks slightly ashamed of himself.

"Not with the baby, and not with Mary still angry at me," he says softly. "I'd not sleep safe in that house if she thinks I'm harming her darling husband, or endangering the offspring." He shakes his head ruefully to himself. "Best not bait the bear in her cave."

Molly's eyebrows raise in surprise. "I wouldn't have thought that about Mary. She always seems so… happy go lucky. To me, at least."

_Unless, of course, she's present for a drug test in St. Bart's. _

For a split second his old smile is back, that cockiness evident as he grins her. "Oh, there's plenty one wouldn't think about Mary, Molly," he says wryly, "but it would still be true." And then, just like that the light in his eyes dies. Suddenly his expression is far away. Sad. "Tomorrow's conversation with John is not going to be pleasant," he murmurs, and Molly has nothing she can say to that.

She's not been in the business of lying to him for years. She's not about to start up again now.

So instead she pads over to him and reaches across him, pushes the bathroom door open. He blinks at her, coming back to the present and nods. Takes the invitation and enters. In order to do so he must brush by her, but this time she can see him keeping his distance by conscious will. Without even waiting for her to leave he starts pulling off his filthy clothes, not a touch of demureness about him. It's a wonder to witness someone so at home in their own skin.

Molly sees a flash of pale, white flesh, the slip and twist of his spine and then the rise and curve of his hip, his backside, as he pulls his trousers down.

His legs seem to be as lean and strong as the rest of him. His arms are sinewy as he pulls off his hoodie and tee.

He looks, she must admit, quite beautiful. Even filthy, he is fascinating to her.

He glances up at the mirror over the sink and instinctively her eyes meet his in it; She thinks she spies some sort of marks on his chest, healing cuts from the looks of things, but though he makes to turn around, to let her see him fully, Molly draws back and pulls the door closed. Makes her way to her couch and lies down.

Suddenly she feels… out of sorts. Rattled. And she'd rather not imagine why.

(_She doesn__'__t need to imagine_, she reminds herself irritably. _She already bloody knows_.)

She listens to the water splash and hum and when she closes her eyes, she sees Sherlock behind them. For some reason she doesn't want to ponder, her fingers are curled tightly into her palms now, as if she's trying to keep them from roaming, which is absurd. She doesn't remember him coming out or speaking to her. She doesn't remember changing the bedclothes. The next thing she knows, she's waking up the next morning, in her own bed and sleeping in clean linens.

She can tell because the fabric softener smell is tickling her nose, and that perfume never lasts long.

The room is awash with the scent of wet hair and soap and morning-time; She breathes in deep, hearing another breath coming in time with hers. She is not alone. She forces herself to sit up, peeks around the bed, and… _There. _At the foot of the mattress, sprawled on a haphazard concoction of sofa cushions and duvets, lies Sherlock Holmes. He's sleeping, face down, arse up, and he appears to still be adrift. Carefree. Given his location, it feels almost… Almost like he was guarding her, though from what Molly cannot say. She still thinks it rather gallant though.

She remembers the way he scared her the last time he was in her apartment however, and though she wants to forget about it, the memory just won't go away.

So she shuffles out of bed and tiptoes to the sink. Gets herself a drink of water. Then she crawls back into bed and stares at the sleeping form of the man who's caused so much uproar in her life already. The man she's not entirely sure she knows anymore, even after last night. _Especially after last night. _His breath is strong and steady, his wiry body beautiful and bare to her.

She can't help but note he didn't bother dressing. She can't help but be grateful for that.

Molly lies back on her pillows in the early morning light and though she knows she should probably do so, she doesn't look away.

She does not know it yet, but Sherlock is not so insensate as he appears.


	8. High

_Disclaimer: _This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Given a quick once over by the lovely Katya Jade. Thanks for their reviews go to LadyK1138, Poodle warriors, Sara Dobie Bauer, Rocking the Redhead and Arcoiris. More darkness ahead ladies, plus a tiny bit of sugar...

* * *

- **HIGH -**

* * *

She tries not to wake him the next morning.

Sherlock knows this because he can hear her tiptoeing about the flat, half-running taps and easing cutlery out of drawers, cups and plates out of cupboards. (Living on the streets discourages a great many things, the most pertinent of which is being a light sleeper).

The show of thoughtfulness is not something he is used to, not something he feels he necessarily deserves, and that being the case, he is not quite sure how to react to it. Oh, he knows what he _wants_ to do: He wants to yell and snap and snarl until she becomes cowed with him again and scurries away, safely tucked back inside her nice, little life and her nice, little box in his Mind Palace, no longer a source of anxiety. But Sherlock also knows that doing that would be a) A Bit Not Good and b) A Bit Less Than Fair and c) Completely Counter-Productive To What He Wants To Do Here In Her Flat, so he refrains.

_It__'__s so much easier to do that_, he muses, _now that he__'__s sober. But then a lot of things are easier, he has found, when one is sober. _

_Or near enough to it that nobody can tell. _

At the thought he flops onto his back, stares up at her sunlit ceiling. Feeling the ache twist in his belly, the hunger for a fix murmuring away inside his brain. Constant. Inescapable. No longer howling, though he knows that will not last. (It never does; He retains enough memory of his university-days lapses to be certain of that). Here in Molly Hooper's flat though, he thinks he will be able to keep it to a murmur for a while at least; It's why he came to her, in the aftermath of the street attack which left him bleeding, bruised and smelling like a brewery. He had been afraid… In so much pain, taking too much would have been very easy and he is not yet so far gone that _that _seems a valid plan. (At least that's what he tells himself).

So as he always has, he'd snuck in, counting on her kindness. Counting on her good graces. Counting on the fact that Molly will not press and push and scold as Mycroft does, she will not yell and worry and ache as John always seems to do-

At the thought of John his stomach dips, that most unwelcome accompaniment to his lapses- _guilt_- tightening in his belly.

He retains little memory of what he said to his best friend during his drugs test but he does know he brought the child into it. He also remembers using the phrase _daddy dear, _a sarcastic insult which Harrie lobs at her brother whenever he's called out her drinking in the past.

_This was not, he must allow, one of his finer moments_.

Sherlock closes his eyes at that, twisting in on himself in discomfort. Wanting to pretend it never happened or it doesn't matter or it was just the drugs talking or, or _something_-

But he knows… He knows that it was not.

_The drugs never made him what he is, that has always been obvious. _

_They just set the monster within him roaming, free and off its leash. _

He hears Molly re-entering the room then, her bare feet padding quietly past him as she reaches for her hairbrush. Her hairpins. He cracks open one eye to see her gathering up her underwear (_purple- lacy- interesting- Why?_) and her clothes for the day, and it belatedly occurs to him that he should probably abandon his feigned sleep and let her change in privacy. This is her room, after all.

So he sits up, unwilling to playact at waking up and giving his hostess quite the fright since she hadn't realised he wasn't out cold still. Molly does the obvious: she lets out a startled little yelp and hops halfway across the bedroom, her clothes and underwear clutched close to her chest as she surveys him.

It's at this moment that it occurs to Sherlock that he's naked.

And that he's kicked off his bedclothes.

It's Molly's staring so pointedly at his face that does it.

Sherlock forces down a sigh- _why must people be so stupidly priggish about nudity?- _but he picks up one of his pillows. Plops it onto his lap and straddles it across his middle. He shoots Molly a tart _Will That Do? _look which she nods at. She's still trying, very hard, to keep her gaze from straying downwards and Sherlock finds… He finds that oddly endearing.

Turns out that he doesn't mind _that_ priggishness whatsoever, and he likes that thought not at all.

"You're awake," she says then. "And you're not high anymore."

She takes a small, tentative step towards him and then hunkers down on her knees, her body mere inches from his. Taking in, no doubt, his pupils' lack of dilation. The general steadiness of his form. She puts her clothes down and one small hand reaches out, traces his cheekbone. His nose. Everywhere obvious that he was injured when the drunks went to work on him. Sherlock gives a small hiss of pain, the hurt reminding him how vulnerable he'd been when he came to her, and Molly makes to move her hand away. _She doesn__'__t like to hurt anyone, not even him. _But, just as he did that morning after the Moran Incident, Sherlock reaches out a hand and stops her. Presses her palm more fully to his face. He has to refrain from the befuddling desire to kiss it.

He doesn't know why- the impulse is foggy, crooning, something with the taste and whisper of his addiction though not wholly a part of it. It's telling him to… please her.

_Oh yes, _he thinks, _he would very much like to please her. _

_He just hasn__'__t the first clue where to start. _

It doesn't matter though: He sees her eyes widen as they had the last time he did this. Something, some flash of worry or fear flickers through them and instantly he makes to let her move away. He shouldn't impose. He shouldn't have touched her. He knows better. But Molly's not the sort to run and she doesn't take the hint. No, she keeps her hand there against his cheekbone.

She appears to be holding her breath in trepidation.

Sherlock stares at her, wide brown eyes bright and curious- accepting- and as he does so he feels the creeping tempest, the riot and brawl of his emotions come crawling to the surface. They haven't been so near, so unavoidable, in a month, not since that scene in St. Bart's. _Oh, God, that scene in St. Bart__'__s. _Images come back to him, her fingers twined in his, his shirt pushed up as they traced his veins together. The smell of her in his nostrils, those lovely brown eyes wide and nervous and _sad. _Sad for him. Sad for what he was doing to her. Sad for what he was doing to himself.

For a moment he's back inside the memory, almost hungry with it, and the rush of emotion, of _arousal, _is such that he's not sure he can bear to breathe-

It's only with great restraint that he manages not to push her away from him by sheer force.

Instead _he_ retreats, moving until he's on the other side of the bed and out of her reach. Hunkering down, under attack from an opponent he carries within him. An opponent he can't best, no matter how hard he tries. Molly frowns, lets out an annoyed little huff of breath but doesn't follow. She stands instead and gathers up her clothes. Now she looks… She looks a little irritated now.

He doesn't expect it and, not for the first time, Sherlock feels a stab of bewilderment as to what he's done wrong but this time, this time he does what he would do with John. He asks her what he has done to upset her.

He's surprised to discover that it actually means something to him.

Molly blinks at him, surprised perhaps for noticing her annoyance. When she looks at him again though that annoyance melts, her expression turning soft and Molly-like. She sits down on her bed with a great whoosh of effort. This time she reaches out without his prodding, her small hand coming to rest on his shoulder as she watches him for signs of reluctance.

"Is this ok?" she asks. He nods, eyes fixed on her. "I just- I just wish you wouldn't keep pulling away from me. I find it…" She frowns. "I find it quite confusing, if you must know."

Sherlock isn't entirely sure he has the words to explain that this touch is wanted, so instead he turns his head and rests his chin upon her hand. Closes his eyes. He feels… restful. Protected.

He thinks she will like that, if he tells her, but the words won't come and he can't make them.

"I know I'm confusing," he says softly instead. "I don't- I don't mean to be. But everything… It's all topsy-turvy at the minute, never more so than around you. I'm trying…" _To what? To navigate it? Deduce it? Defeat it? _

_There__'__s no answer, at least none he__'__s willing to countenance. _

"I'm trying," he repeats again, his voice low. He hates how uncertain it sounds.

"Yes," she says, and there's a trace of a smile in her voice now. "Yes, you are."

He opens his eyes, surprised at Molly's teasing tone but she's still staring at the place where his jaw meets her skin. Still fascinated, it seems, with the notion of having him near. He looks at her and he sees- Something. Something he recognises. It creeps underneath his flesh too, sometimes. The ghost of an addiction perhaps, or the ghost of a desire you won't give enough voice to, the ghost of a desire you'd never willingly name.

He finds he wants to name it though, wants to say it out loud. He's just not sure he has the words to. He'd rather let it creep between them, creep between them and wrap him in a web that's not his own.

_He doesn't want anything that's of his own making, not right now. _

So, watching her carefully, he reaches down and places the littlest, most harmless, most terrifying kiss on her ring and index fingers instead, there where they're pressed together.

_It__'__s__…__ It__'__s the initiation of a vassalage he can__'__t begin to explain._

She stiffens but doesn't pull away from him. If possible, her gaze narrows onto his with even greater precision. Her lips part, tongue delicately darting out to wet their sudden dryness. Her pupils dilating rapidly, the action obvious despite the irises' dark tinge. Red steals up her throat, her cheeks, but she just stares at him. Her hand is becoming a weight now, a weight he doesn't want to throw off.

It slides down, pressing lightly, teasing his chest as she leans into him.

Suddenly she's awfully near.

Sherlock feels as if he's watching the scene from outside himself as he reaches up. Brushes his lips- once, twice- across hers. Gently. Slowly. _It- It makes them both shudder. The day she slapped his face moves behind his eyes_. She takes in the softest, most amazed little breath as he does it and Sherlock can't help it, suddenly he's on his knees and right before her. Hand at the back of her neck, pulling her down more fully to him. Pressing her mouth completely with his, one of her hands scrabbling for balance against his chest. His knee. Her thighs have somehow ended up on either side of his hips. It's- He knows he should be able to name this but he can't. _He can't_. Adler, Janine, those few partners he remembers from uni, none of them ever felt like _this_. Like homecoming. Like welcome. Like the first tentative words spoken in what will become one's mother-tongue. But then-

They break apart, needing to breathe, and now Molly is staring at him, wide-eyed. "Are you sure you're not high?" she asks, voice rattled, breathless, and just like that the spell is broken.

He feels it sputter and crack between them, the ground seeming to go from underneath his feet. Coldness, icy, icy coldness rushes into the space it occupied and with it, anger creeps.

Anger, as always, is so much easier than hurt, and yet hurt- The hurt feels almost wanted too.

_Not that he can admit that. _

"I'm not high," he snaps instead. "Though I understand your assuming I must be."

And he shakes his head, pulls abruptly away from her. Embarrassment is starting to roil within him now, the whisper of his foolishness, the shame of it confounding his good sense. Making him angry, making him want to lash out. _What on Earth was he thinking of? What on Earth made him think she__'__d truly want what he wants with __**him**__? _After all, every time he's tried to show her what he wants she's pulled away… And now she's seen the things which live under his skin. _He has always wanted to spare her that_. So-

"Kindly go and change while I wait for John," he bites out imperiously, rather than thinking any more about his insufferable weakness. "I assume you told him I'd need some clothes from Baker Street? Or do you suggest I try swanning around in yours?" He snorts, his tone derisive. Cutting. He's very aware that he's looking down his nose at her now. "They might be big enough but I'm used to better, I'm sure you'll agree, Molly _dear_…"

That's stupid and not even accurate and he's not entirely sure but Sherlock thinks he's just insulted Molly's weight and appearance, neither of which can be faulted.

But it doesn't matter because she's moved away from him and suddenly there's no closeness between them at all.

Suddenly he doesn't have to be scared anymore and the thought makes him feel a little sick.

Molly blinks, clearly hurt, but then she nods. Stands up stiffly. The pissed-off look is back on her face now. "John'll be here in a few minutes," she snaps, "I assume he'll have thought to bring you something. If he didn't, there's a Primark down the road. You can get yourself some trackies before you deign to set off for home, your highness."

And with that she picks up her clothes and exits. Head held high, everything about her screaming her annoyance with him. She shuts the bedroom door and stalks, by the sound of things, into the shower Sherlock used (and, dear God, _cleaned_) last night- _Why on earth had he wanted to clean it?- _

Within moments he hears the spray hum to life.

He resolutely does not picture her beneath it.

Sherlock stares at the door, unsure why he's so angry, unsure what just happened, until John comes and rouses him. It turns out he has brought him a change of clothes, has even brought him his favourite shoes. He's also come armed with an imprecation from Mrs. Hudson regarding Sherlock's behaviour and a possible phone-call to his mother, and for a moment it feels exactly like old times.

_If it wasn't for the way his heart's thudding at the thought of Molly's anger, Sherlock could almost believe the last three years hadn't happened at all. _

His friend watches him as he bids a tense farewell to Molly Hooper, and as soon as he's out of the flat he informs him that they're about to have themselves a little chat. A _long_, little chat, which Sherlock is not getting out of, no matter what he may have to say for himself. Or whatever Mycroft may claim about his needing to save the Commonwealth. Or whatever Lestrade might suggest about sticking his nose into his friend's business.

_They need to sort this. _

A little dazed, a lot worried, Sherlock nods his acquiescence and follows John as the pair of them head to the nearest coffee stand. He doesn't know whether he's horrified or, or _happy _and it's not the first time. But if ever he were to name his touchstone in life it's John Watson, and maybe John can help him still.

Sherlock really hopes he can, because frankly, he has no idea what he's doing right now.


	9. Touchstone

_Disclaimer: _This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. And thanks for their reviews go to coolaquariun, LadtK1138, coloradoandcolorado1, Nana40, Rocking the Redhead, Bucky5 and AJP910.

* * *

- **TOUCHSTONE -**

* * *

As it turns out, John has no intention of having their little chat at a coffee shop where anyone might hear it.

No, he's been ordered to bring Sherlock back to his so that Mary can cook him dinner and glower at him for worrying her and make him hold the offspring and ascertain whether he's alright or nearly dead already. The process will be nauseating but Sherlock suspects that resistance is futile.

_And besides_, he tells himself, _it might not be so bad. _

Not with John _and _Mary there. Not with the little one. Not with the fact that it could be worse, that they could be making him dine with Mycroft, or even, God forbid, his parents. _That would be torture indeed._ Besides, for all that he resents their taking John away from him, Sherlock retains a great affection for the Watson family and that affection bubbles up at the oddest times, of which now is most definitely one-

So he watches John order a white americano and pretends to be put out when he finds a strong flat white rammed into his hand, a stirrer and several sugars parked precariously on its lid. Glowers as John counts out his tube fair into his hand and tells him to put it away. With deft ease Sherlock pockets the change and then picks up the… accoutrements for his coffee, popping the plastic lid off. Adding the sugar and stirring, all the time keeping watch as John harries him across the road to the nearest Tube station, his face still set like a thunderclap.

Several untenably chipper American students (it's the _Abercrombie & Fitch _hoodies which give it away) take one look at him and scatter like so many pigeons.

John doesn't notice, choosing instead to pause at the top steps of Kilburn Tube Station and gesture tersely for Sherlock to join him. It is more an order than a request.

_One might almost assume, _Sherlock thinks sarcastically, _that John Watson is a bit miffed at his best friend. _

Sherlock takes one look at the dismally cramped entrance (he has spent a great deal of the last month sleeping in such places) and contemplates demanding a taxi. But he realises that a) he has no money besides his fair so it would have to be John's shout and b) the likelihood of John paying for a taxi when he's this pissed off is miniscule. So he trots alongside, pausing only to give the station a quick scan and assure himself that no, there's nobody annoying here he can pickpocket with a clear conscience before feeding his coins into the automatic ticket vendor and purchasing a ticket.

_If they were going back to Baker Street, _he muses glumly, _he might have talked John into walking. _

But he isn't going home, no, he's going out to the wilds of glorious Hendon and that will require travel on public transportation. Sherlock doesn't see the point: Good schools and safe playgrounds for the offspring and affordable(ish) property prices aren't the most important things in the world, after all.

_It really is ridiculous, _he huffs, _that John moved so far out of the city_.

But far out of the city he truly is. So they take the Jubilee Line as far as Bond Street, then hop on the Central Line for a measly two stops before finally joining the Northern Line to Hendon. All the way there, John says not a word, despite his promise that they needed to talk. Sherlock feels certain that there's a quicker way to get to Chez Watson but he suspects that it would involve something plebeian like buses, and that's just not going to happen. Besides, judging by the careful way Watson's watching him from the corner of his eye, his friend is trying to ascertain whether he is sober, and trying to give him time to clear his head if he's not. _Which would also explain the silent treatment_, he thinks.

He feels a spurt of exasperation for this though he supposes he shouldn't. He is going to be in the presence of the offspring, after all; Normal fatherly response, to keep the little one from harm when she's in the presence of the big, scary addict-

Something twists inside him at that word, something that from another person might be shame, and he has to fight very hard to push it away. _It isn__'__t- He isn__'__t- _

That word has never been him. It never will be him.

He stopped once and he can stop again. This thing is not his master.

_Nothing can ever be the master of the great Sherlock Holmes. _

So he closes his eyes, pretends he is visiting his Mind Palace (it's always good for getting John off his back). He sees Molly Hooper there, smiling and shy and still half asleep, wearing her little pyjamas and wrapped in the bed he made for her, in the sheets he washed for her, and he feels a shiver of terror at the happiness and longing that the image evokes. The pleasure of it. The uncertainty of it.

"_Do you want to sleep in your bed?__"__ he hears his own voice whisper. _

_Oh how he wants her to tell him yes. _

_She nods and smiles and pulls him to her, pulls him onto the bed and onto his back and into her good graces- Tells him, tells him that she wants him and what she wants to do to him- with him- what she wants him to do to her- _

"Sherlock?" He opens his eyes to John frowning at him. "Sherlock, did you just say something about Molly Hooper?"

Sherlock is aghast at the notion that he spoke aloud, so does what he would normally do in this situation: He scowls furiously at John. Makes his tone as dismissive as possible.

"No, I didn't mention Molly. I'm not still high," he says, cunningly derailing three conversations with one insult. (He can multi-task). Because no, he will not be discussing what happened with Molly with anyone. No, he will not be discussing why the suggestion that he's interested in her is one which he always dismisses as drugs-related with anyone. And no, he will not be discussing whether he's stoned with anyone.

"_Anyone," can just fuck right off, quite frankly_.

John's still frowning though. "But you said-"

"Yes, well, I'm aware this epic journey you've taken me on is to make sure I'm not inebriated around your child," Sherlock snaps, knowing the best defence is doubtless a good offence. "Accusing me of talking to myself is just more of the same. But I'm not high, so detach, unclench, or whatever it is you do-"

And he crosses his arms angrily over his chest, unsure why but suddenly feeling very… exposed. And petulantly angry, at the exposure.

John stares at him for a moment, nonplussed, and then he does the thing Sherlock's been expecting since that second drugs test at Bart's: He reaches out and with sharp, swift efficiency plants a punch right on Sherlock's nose, right on the already-damaged bridge. Sherlock hears a crack, which means it will have to be set, and my, won't that be a fun after-dinner activity?

Needless to say, his nose now really, really, _really_ bloody hurts.

There's a gasp from the tube passengers- those who can be bothered looking up from their papers or kindles, that is- but John holds his hands up. Informs them with a completely straight face that, "I'm his doctor, that was entirely medicinal."

"For you or for me?" Sherlock inquires sarcastically, looking at his best friend through narrowed eyes. He's managing to blot up most of the blood with his coffee napkin.

It looks bloody ridiculous.

"For both of us," John mutters, "Though more, I suspect for you. _I__'__m _not a pillock."

And with a sanctimoniously confident nod which Sherlock feels couldn't possibly be warranted he sits back down, goes back to glaring at his coffee cup. The silence now roaring, rather than merely tense.

Sherlock rather misses the merely tenseness.

They get off at the next station and Sherlock follows John up the stairs, stopping only to scare a couple of would-be Goths when he steps into the station McDonalds to pick up some more napkins for his nose before stepping out into the light. He spies a familiar car as he exits the tube station: Mary's parked to the side, the offspring safely fastened into a baby-seat in the back. To his surprise Mary smiles and shakes her head when she sees his bloodied nose before holding out her arms to him in welcome and giving him a small peck on the cheek. John harrumphs at this but she pays no heed to him.

"Into the back with you," she says. "Try not to bleed all over my baby."

Sherlock snorts. "The offspring or the car?"

John shoots him an unamused look- "And there's the man in a nutshell, ladies and gentlemen"- as Sherlock folds himself gingerly into the back seat, watching little Evie from the corner of his eye as if she were the deadliest rattle-snake known to man.

Given who her mother is, she might be.

The baby sees him and grins, holding out a gooey, sucked-upon little fist in greeting. She is gleefully waving one of her shoes in the other, as proud as if it were the spoils of war. When he scowls at this she coos and then giggles, as if he's done some sort of magic trick.

John glowers but doesn't say a word. The display of passive-aggressive skill is absolutely masterful.

"See, she responds well to signs of mayhem," Mary says brightly from the passenger seat. "Takes after all three of her parents, don't you, darling?"

John murmurs something that sounds like, "not if I have anything to say about it," as they pull into traffic and then says nothing for the entirety of the five minute drive to his house. He patently doesn't bring up the fact that Mary just called Sherlock one of his child's parents. Sherlock doesn't either, but then he doubts there's any way he could broach the subject without causing any more offence- Or harm.

So for once he keeps his silence. John parks the car and picks up little Evie, fusses over her as he brings her and her baby bag inside and leaving Mary and Sherlock alone. The detective eyes his retreating back uncertainly; A slightly uncomfortable silence stretches out, wherein the two sociopaths in John Watson's life take in one another and try to figure out where they stand.

Theirs is a fond sort of détente.

"John's good with the silent treatment, he perfected it on me," Mary murmurs then, sotto voce. She places a soothing hand on Sherlock's elbow, rubbing to show she knows how it feels. "Don't worry, I'll talk him around: He really does want to talk to you, you know- I just don't think he knows how."

Sherlock cocks a cynical eyebrow at her and she shrugs.

"You're not the first addict he's cared about," she points out bluntly. Sherlock opens his mouth to object to such a characterisation and Mary shoots him a look which could best be translated as _bitch, please_. "Even if you're his favourite," she continues, " he's going to have problems with this: Harrie flashbacks are to be expected, Sherlock, and all things considered, I think he's doing quite well-"

"By punching me and giving me the silent treatment?" Sherlock demands.

It's the thing he hates about his lapses, how wrong-footed- how_ wrong- _they make him feel.

_And as the junkie of the piece, nobody ever believes he has any right to protest. _

Again Mary shrugs. "Could have been worst: He could have gone with Plan A and knocked you out. Left you into The Priory to go cold turkey." Sherlock opens his mouth to object but she holds her hands up in mock surrender. "Hey, I was the one who reminded him you'd just escape and probably never speak to us again: We both know that rehab only works if you're determined to get clean, and sometimes not even then-"

"Sounds like the voice of experience," Sherlock scoffs, aware his tone is defensive.

Molly's gaze turns serious. Her eyes are far away, and then suddenly they focus on his with a piercing, laser-like intensity.

"I wasn't born Mary Morstan, Sherlock," she says, very softly. "You of all people know that." And then she lets out a long, calming breath, the ghost of who she once was consciously, actively dismissed as she turns her attention back to the matter at hand. "But before we talk about that," she says, tone normal now, "I want to have a little chat with you about Molly Hooper-"

Sherlock opens his mouth to scoff and dismiss- to be honest, to brazenly_ lie_- but Mary's look quite silences him. He really wishes he knew how she figured out when he's fibbing but she resolutely refuses to share it. A magician never reveals her tricks, etc. etc.

He doesn't tell her that the only other person who can do it is his mother. He feels this would set a dangerous precedent.

So instead he takes a deep heaving sigh and crosses his arms again. Leans on the car's bonnet and cocks his head. "What about Molly Hooper?" he asks in the sort of patently careless voice which might fool Lestrade, or Mycroft, or even John Watson. He hopes he can bluff his way out of this.

Unfortunately however, Mrs. Watson is no fool.

"Oh no," Mary says, "We're not having conversation until you've been fed and I've been watered- _And_ I can be sure you're entirely sober." She grins beatifically. "Then we're going to have a chat about why you ask for her every time you're high." At his unimpressed growl she grins more widely. "Food first, Sherlock, then interrogation. That's the way I was raised, and if it was good enough for my grandmother and my grandmother's grandmother then it's good enough for me-"

And with that she gives him another worryingly bright smile and heads into the house. Sherlock has no choice but to follow. To follow, and to ponder once again how alike he and the new Mrs. Watson might be. As he is handed cutlery and ordered to set the table, he wonders when both the Watsons got so bloody good at letting him stew in his own juices.

_They really have developed a knack for it_, he muses. _Maybe Mummy has been giving them tips. _

As he thinks this, he looks over at little Evie. She grins at him, now chewing on her war-won shoe, her tiny fist still drool-covered from its residence in her mouth. For some reason he can't begin to fathom, that feeling of shame twists in his chest once again at the sight of her and he hurries to finish setting the table. He keeps his eyes downcast.

Molly is staring at him, sad and worried, behind his eyelids but Evie coos on, regardless.

She's her parent's daughter, after all, and Sherlock doesn't know why that thought brings neither comfort nor joy.


	10. Freefall

_Disclaimer: _This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Still not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. And thanks for their reviews go to Poodle warriors, LadyK1138, Katya Jade, catsgotmytongue, Bucky5 and Rocking the Redhead. More from the Watson's double-act: enjoy! And also, this one was quite difficult to write, so all feedback is appreciated.

* * *

- **FREEFALL -**

* * *

The silence at dinner stretches out spectacularly, thick as midnight in a graveyard.

The last time Sherlock was present for such preternatural stillness, he was lying in a ditch in Serbia and trying not to get shot by mercenaries. _This doesn__'__t feel all that different_, he muses.

John is sitting at the head of the table, his cutlery held in a death grip, his attention clearly, obstinately, determinedly focussed on his child as if to remind Sherlock that he does care for her, that she is the centre of his world now. He doesn't offer conversation and he barely acknowledges his wife, though it's obvious she has put a great deal of effort into this meal. _There are side dishes and condiments and everything_. He is stiff and furious and lethal as a knife's blade, sending Sherlock to Coventry like some misbehaving child-

Holmes is painfully aware that all this moral rectitude is for his benefit.

_Not that he's the only one. _"Alright," Mary says with determined brightness, "who kept room for pudding?"

And she rises, starts clearing away the dishes. Her manner is efficient, cheerful, almost daring the men at the table to rebuke her.

Sherlock can't take it anymore, he cocks an eyebrow and looks across the table at John. The doctor glowers back at him.

"Did you keep room for pudding, John?" he asks innocently. "Or has your course of chicken casserole and self-righteous teeth grinding quite filled you up?"

And he grins at his friend, knowing the smile will get a rise out of him. Counting on it. If John thinks he's sitting in silence another minute, feeling guilty and wrong and unwelcome and confused then he is bloody well mistaken.

_That, _he thinks, _is just not how Sherlock Holmes __**rolls**__. _

Never let it said that John Watson backed down from the opportunity for a melodramatic huff though. As Mary rolls her eyes heavenwards and puts down the plates- "Here we go, Evie," she murmurs to the baby as she picks her up, "let's leave the big shouty boys to their big shouty argument,"- John rises to his feet, his weight balanced on his fists. They rest upon the table. When he comes to full standing Sherlock makes a scoffing noise and, as he had the night his best friend returned from the dead, John smacks his fist onto the table with sharp, percussive force.

He looks, even Sherlock must admit, quite remarkably angry.

Evie and Mary are not quite out the door when he does this and instantly the child starts wailing, wondering, no doubt, what has upset her father. Both John and Sherlock wince at it.

Mary soothes to her as best she can, resting her on her hip as she walks over to her husband, leans into him. Kisses his cheek. "Nothing's broken yet," she murmurs, "and I'd like to keep it that way."

Sherlock somehow doubts she's talking about crockery.

For a split second John says nothing, his mouth working in a thin, taut line, and then he gives the tiniest of nods. His eyes don't leave Sherlock's as he lets Mary plant another tiny peck on his cheek. Evie reaches for him and his gaze softens as he kisses her tiny fist. She quiets a little at this.

"I'll do my best," he murmurs and Mary smiles. There is so much love in her gaze and for some reason this morning with Molly once again pops into Sherlock's mind. He pushes the thought away viciously.

"Do better," Mary answers. Her attention flicks to Sherlock. "Both of you." She shakes her head, rocks the little one gently. "I'll be back to check on the Great Detective later," she says, "so try not to kill him, John: If you do, you'll be disposing of the body on your lonesome."

And with that she leaves, Evie pressed to her chest as she murmurs and croons to her. Telling her it's not her fault that men are silly, a statement which very nearly provokes both John and Sherlock into a mutual defence of their gender (as no doubt it was meant to do.) But though they both obviously feel maligned, neither say anything. Instead, with conscious and obvious effort, John walks away from the table and makes his way stiffly to the fridge. Opens it. He pulls out a bottle of _Corona_ beer and pops it open against the table-top, sits down and stares at Sherlock.

He doesn't offer his friend one.

With a sigh Sherlock folds him self back into his chair, the anger going out of him. Suddenly he feels awfully… old. "I've never had a problem with alcohol, John," he points out sensibly. "Giving me a drink won't count as encouraging the junkie-"

"Don't." The words come out low and terse. They are addressed to the rim of the long-neck.

Sherlock cocks an eyebrow. "Don't what?"

"Don't make jokes, not about drink. Not about addictions. Not to me." And John shakes his head, scowling at the bottle's label. "I've watched addiction take someone I cared about, Sherlock," he's saying quietly, "I don't want to watch it take you-"

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock snorts. "You've been spending too much time with Mycroft. I'm not the heroine in a Barbara Cartland novel, nothing is going to "take me…""

"Stop bloody lying." The words are flat. Inarguable.

"Only your wife can tell when I'm lying."

John knows this. "Do you want me to get her in here?" he asks, glowering more fiercely, the bottle hanging at his knee. His other hand is twisted into a fist, pressed tight against his once-injured leg. He looks so furious.

Sherlock folds his arms over his chest defensively. "You should do, she'd be better company than you-"

"I'm not supposed to be good company," John hisses, "I'm supposed to be your best bloody friend, damn it!"

And he suddenly brings the beer down to the table with a loud thud, liquid sloshing over the rim.

_For a man who calls __**me**__ a drama queen, _Sherlock thinks, _John certainly has a flair theatrics. _

Sherlock leans back, his expression mocking. "Would my best friend act like this?" he demands. "Please, pull the other one, I'm reasonably sure it has bells on. This is more _in loco parentis _than _semper fidelis_, this is Big Brother John to the rescue once again. So do tone down the melodrama and stop overreacting, there's a good chap-"

"You bloody bastard."

For just a moment John's hand twitches again, as if he's about to strike. He's staring at Sherlock as if he's never seen him before and something, some tight, silent, skulking _thing_ inside Sherlock loosens at the thought of it.

Holmes's smile is condescending though. Bright. He doesn't want to think about why John's anger pleases him. "Guilty as charged," he smirks. "And proud of it too-"

"There's no pride in being a walking corpse."

"How would you know?" Sherlock scoffs. "_You__'__ve _never tried it."

John's smile is savage. "That's your bloody problem, Sherlock, right there," he says and it's obvious from his tone that he's absolutely, _smugly_ certain he's right.

Sherlock rolls his eyes, makes a show of being unimpressed. Yet even as he does it he feels the same hollow, brittle, uncertainty which used to take up residence in his chest when he was with Janine steal through him. It's the same thing which used to whisper to him when John discussed his wedding plans or when Molly smiled at Tom. It's the knowledge that he's not being honest and he doesn't care, that he's disregarding the reality of a situation because it doesn't suit him- He's disregarding the _evidence_, because it doesn't suit him-

Once again Molly's face this morning pops into his head, and once again he forces the image away. _It is, he must allow, becoming increasingly difficult_.

So he focuses on Watson. John is staring at his bottle with a look which on anyone else might… It might connote _anguish_. His face is pale, his jaw and throat working as if he is trying to tamp down on some great emotion. As if he is trying to speak but the force of what he feels is simply too great.

Sherlock feels a swell of guilty panic, because he hasn't seen his friend react like that since the rooftop at Bart's and he wasn't even sure how to deal with it then- He's not good with emotions, John's the one who's good at the human stuff- His being angry was easy, but this, this looks _hard_- _**heartbreaking **__- _

For the first time since he got here, Sherlock lets the nervousness he's feeling come to the surface, but John's too far inside his own emotions to notice. Perhaps, even, to care.

"The first time I was called in to identify a body," John's saying now, "I was barely eighteen years old." His voice has grown very, very quiet. His hand tightens, again with meticulous precision, on the beer bottle's neck. "It was a young woman, early twenties with blond hair, and she'd been found face-down beside a car-park in my hometown. There was evidence… There was evidence of sexual assault."

He swallows. Takes a sip of his beer.

"They brought me in because we thought it was Harrie. She'd gone on the lam again, booze _and _pills this time. Dad didn't have the bottle to go, so muggins here was sent instead."

If John expected Sherlock to react to this he gives no indication of it.

He doesn't even look at his best friend as he continues.

"You told me Harrie was a drinker the night we first met, remember? You told that it was long term, and that it had probably cost her more than one relationship in her life, which it has. Clara wasn't the first, she won't be the last." And something twists John Watson's mouth, something which, under other circumstances, might have been classed as a smile.

_It looks far too harsh though_, Sherlock thinks, _to belong to his John Watson_.

"What you didn't tell me-" he's saying, and now his words are getting faster, tripping over themselves- "what I suspect not even your big bloody gifted brain can tell me- is was what it feels like to watch someone you love get… filled up with a substance. Get _replaced_ with it. Get fucking mind-wiped and warped and twisted by it, until one day, you're with them and suddenly you realise, you're not talking to the person you love anymore. You're talking to the thing that ails them."

He looks sharply up at Sherlock, his fingers tightening on the bottle. Suddenly Holmes feels absolutely nailed by his gaze.

"You know what I mean, I know you do," he says. His lips are drawn back, his teeth visible. "So don't pull this shite with me, Sherlock. Not about this."

And he goes back to staring at the bottle, his nails digging into its paper label. Shredding at it. It appears to absorb his entire attention.

For a moment Holmes is tempted to bolt but he doesn't. That hollow feeling inside his chest feels almost… hateful right now. Obscene, almost. And obscenity has no place in his relationship with John Watson.

He shakes his head instead.

"I don't know what that feels like," he says quietly. In this, he is being honest. "I've only seen it on the other side. That feeling where everyone you know gets further and further away, until… Until you're lost at sea. A ghost." He swallows. "Nothing seems real to you, except maybe the substance..." _Only the substance__…_

He has never admitted this to anyone before.

John's expression turns furious though. "So I'm not real to you?" he demands. "Mary and Molly and Mrs. Hudson and your life and your family aren't real to you?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes. _Trust John to miss the point. _"Of course you're real to me. All of you are real to me, especially when you keep blundering about, thumping me in the nose. I haven't gotten nearly far enough yet to start forgetting people-"

He stops suddenly, realising what he's just said even as he sees a look of triumph- of _heartbroken_ triumph but triumph nonetheless- steal into John's eyes.

_Yet_, he just said _yet_.

That isn't a threat, that's a prophecy. A promise.

He stares at John and for some reason he feels as absolutely transparent, as flimsy as a piece of sugar-glass and just as breakable. He hates it.

John drags his chair closer though, leans into him. He lays one hand, very quietly on his arm. "You're scaring me, Sherlock," he says quietly, pressing his advantage. "You're scaring a lot of people. Using again? Disappearing for a month? All but stalking poor Molly Hooper, when all she's ever tried to be is a good friend to you? What the Hell is all that about?"

Holmes wishes he could push his friend's words away but he finds that he cannot.

So he starts with the one accusation he _can _refute. "I'm not stalking Molly, John," he says. "I would never- I _could_ never hurt her. Surely you know that."

Watson shakes his head. "I used to think that. But… Do you remember what you were like in Bart's during your last drugs test? Do you have any idea what it _looked_ like? How she was looking at you when I came to collect you this morning?"

Sherlock glares, pout, as if by denying him answers he can make John's questions simply go away. He is more than old enough, however, to know it doesn't work like that.

"You turned up at her house, not once but twice, without letting her know, Sherlock," John is saying. "You tried to force your way in- into her space, into her _life_- after you long ago seemed to give up on earning that right. That's the sort of stuff that gets you a restraining order, not a woman's regard, and you're smart enough to know that."

He shakes his head disbelievingly, takes a sip of his beer as if to wash away the bitter taste of what he's said.

"You should have seen what you were like when you saw her in Bart's," he continues. "I thought- I thought I was going to have to pull you off her, and Jesus but I never thought I'd have to worry about that with you…"

And his voice breaks off. He's shaking his head again; he looks a little ashamed of himself for having said all this.

_And yet__…_

Sherlock wants to deny his friend's words but he can't. He _can__'__t _remember. Not clearly. All he remembers is wanting to fold himself into Molly, to be lost in her. _Molly__'__s always been so good to those who are lost_. He knows though that John wouldn't lie to him or overreact, not about something like that-

So he must allow that what he remembers and what actually happened may be two different things_. _

At the though horror and shame and… regret? Start creeping through him. Is that why Molly pulled away this morning? He thinks. Because she was frightened of him? Because she thought… _She thought he would hurt her? _He knows he hasn't treated her that well and he knows that he shouldn't have turned up when she was mugged. Or demanded she come in to do his drugs test. Or broken into her flat just so he could sleep somewhere safe and warm where nobody would let him hurt himself. _Or them_. But he'd thought…

He'd thought his intentions would be trusted. He'd assumed that they would be.

He opens his mouth to say something and suddenly nothing- _nothing- _will come out.

One thing about John Watson though, he hasn't a gloating bone in his body. As he watches what must be horror, then consternation, then shame chase their away across Sherlock's features he does nothing except stay close. Keep his hand on his arm.

His anger is forgotten now he can see something gentler is needed and for that Sherlock is more grateful than he can say.

"You see what I'm talking about?" he murmurs and Sherlock nods. Too troubled to say anything in answer. His tongue feels like it's made of cement suddenly. _Falling is just like flying Sherlock, _he hears Moriarty whisper in his head, and oh but he wishes he didn't know what the other man meant.

_He doesn__'__t want to think about permanent destinations right now. _

"Then for God sake, sort this crap out, mate," John is saying. His eyes blaze as he stares at his best friend. "I have no doubt you can do it, I just don't think… I don't think right now that you believe you _have_ to."

And with those words, he goes back to his beer. Moments later Evie's crying sounds again and this time John goes to check on her- _It__'__s his turn after all. _He doesn't come down for the rest of the evening, but then Sherlock doesn't expect him to.

Holmes sits and stares into space long into the night, thinking about what John told him- _Something will have to be done- _

He's just about to open Mary's car door, her stolen keys in his pocket, when he realises she's beat him to it. And that he'll not be going anywhere tonight. It's in the way she's smiling at him. But-

"First, call Molly," she says. "See if she's awake. And if she is we'll have our chat while I drive you there. You know, and you're a captive audience."

Sherlock gets into the seat beside her and fastens his seat-belt, and as he does it he wonders whether this is a good idea at all.

Mary revs the engine and they take off on two wheels, the driver grinning blithely; he's too busy holding on for dear life to formulate an escape plan.


	11. Breathless

_Disclaimer: _This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. No infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to LadyK1138, Poodle warriors, coloradoandcolorado1, Katya Jade, Bucky5 and Rocking the Redhead. (seriously, I was very worried about the last chapter so thanks). Hope you enjoy this: Darkness continues, but there's some of the promised kink appearing here as well, so be aware...

* * *

- **BREATHLESS -**

* * *

"Are you the good cop?" Sherlock asks mildly.

He's sitting in the car, the lights of London twinkling in front of him. They've parked in front of Sunny Hill Park, and he is quite astonished he's alive, considering the driving he has just had foisted on him.

He's also quite relieved that Mary couldn't actually interrogate him while engaged in the motorized game of tag with an apparently suicidal taxi-driver. And an ice-cream van. And a nun.

The person who drove him here, and coincidentally the only person to have ever shot Sherlock Holmes without wanting to kill him, is sitting beside him, that professional, hawk-like gaze trained on him like a sniper's rifle. He knows that she heard his question, he just suspects she's not going to answer.

_This has not been a comfortable day, _Sherlock muses. _And something tells him it__'__s far from over yet. _

Mary however gives a small smile. Fiddles with her seat-belt and releases it, popping the driver's door open. "There's a great set of swings in here," she says. "Evie's too small for them yet and John's not the sort, but do you want to give them a go?"

Her smile widens as she steps out, blowing onto her hands in the cold night air and stamping. Sherlock looks at her suspiciously but she's the very model of innocence, waiting for him to give his consent. He closes his eyes, however briefly, and as he does so he feels it, feels that wanting, needy, manic hunger inside him twist and claw. He's gone too long without a fix and now he's regretting it- _Just something to take the edge off, _he thinks, aware of the desperation just beneath the surface of that statement. _Just something to help navigate what John said about addiction, what John said about __**Molly**__-_

But he cannot give in. He knows he can't. Or shouldn't. _Or, or __**something**_. So, rather than concentrate on the hunger he nods. Opens his own seatbelt and follows her into the park. The wind is cutting and he turns his coat-collar up against the cold until she notices and snorts.

"What?"

Mary shakes her head. "I just didn't believe John that you actually did that," she says, but before he can retort she's through the park gates and into the darkness.

Sherlock can't help but notice that she assumes he'll blithely follow along.

Given how much he thinks this conversation might help him though, he supposes he'll play nicely for now: After all, Mary is a woman, and may thus be better able to give advice than John on the subject of apologising to Molly. It's this thought which keeps him moving, following the red blur of Mary's coat through the darkness, listening to the sound of her tread against the tarmac of the path.

_He's surprised how easily she finds her way, even on a moonless night, but then he supposes, given who she is, that he shouldn't be. _

Getting to the playground doesn't take long and once they get there she hops easily over the fence, giving a huffing little laugh of pleasure as she does. Sherlock, being Sherlock, takes a run and swings himself over easily, earning himself more laughter and a joking little clap. It's a strange feeling, laughing when for so long he's been on edge, craving something or other and not knowing what. _Craving the desire to laugh that isn't tied into a desire to sneer- or to hide_. It's the thing about being around loved ones when they know you've been abusing a substance, they _don't _laugh around you, they _don't_ do anything around you except scowl or worry. As if their abandoning their own joy is yet another crime they wish to make you guilty off-

"Stop feeling sorry for yourself, Sherlock," Mary calls. "Come and have a go on the swings instead!"

She's made her way over to the swing-set and she's swaying, ever so slightly, her arms wrapped around the swing's chains. Her golden hair shines like a platinum halo in the pale, white safety lamp at the swings' base.

Like Molly, she's really rather beautiful when she looks so much like herself.

Sherlock blinks- _sometimes he forgets how irritating he finds her ability to see straight inside him_- but he's come this far so he joins her. Manages to fold his lank frame into one of the swings, the tightness of the fit constraining. He suspects he looks like an idiot; he certainly feels like one. He suddenly realises that Mycroft never allowed him to do this when he was younger, and he has thus no idea what he's doing-

Mary stands, pushing the seat back and tightens her hands on the chains.

"Like this," she says, and she pushes with her knees before bringing her feet directly up in front of her and swinging out.

She moves in a beautiful, gracefully curving arc, giving a whoop of laughter as she goes.

_For a moment it's hard to believe that she was ever the woman he knows she was_, _when she's looking as carefree as __**that**__. _

Sherlock is well aware that he probably shouldn't but he follows her example. He, however, pushes a bit too hard and is nearly jolted out of his seat, his attempt to compensate forcing him backwards so that for a moment he fears he'll tumble out of the swing and crack his skull open. But he rights himself, just in the nick of time, and, since his feet went out from under him he has plenty of momentum to carry him forward, a little higher than Mary's gone.

He wouldn't be who he is if he didn't feel a thrill of satisfaction in _that. _

"Oh, you think you're clever, do you?" Mary says. "Well, watch _this_…"

And she swings her feet forward harder, forcing the swing to arc until she's damn near vertical with the ground. Her shoulders and head are tilted downwards, and she has to tighten her grip on the chains to make sure she doesn't fall off. She swings back with ever greater force though and Sherlock joins her, their movements beginning to synch up- Their swings' arcs matching one another-

"This is what it feels like, when it starts," Mary calls. She sounds so carefree.

"When what starts?"

Sherlock can't help it, he's... he's nearly breathless with delight.

_Nothing has been this simple in aaaaaaages_.

"All of it," Mary answers. "Noticing the other person. Realising they notice you. Realising that's what you want from them, that they're the person to give it-"

Sherlock frowns. "Whatever are you nattering on about?" he asks, swinging his legs harder.

She will _not _swing better than he does, his pride won't tolerate it.

"I'm talking about you and Molly," Mary calls. Her tone is utterly serene. "I'm talking about the fact that every time you're high you demand her presence the way the average pothead demands reruns of _The Magic Roundabout. _I know John has himself convinced that you're hell-bent on scaring her but we both know that's not really what this is about, don't we?"

And she swings herself further up, humming happily at her own prowess.

Sherlock digs his toes into the playground's wood-chip floor though, forcing his swing to a sudden halt.

Mary keeps going, regardless.

"I do not crave Molly Hooper's company when I'm stoned," he bites out.

He's glaring at Mary now, painfully aware that yes, he has been hoodwinked by the Watsons' Good Cop.

_He should have known he wouldn't be allowed to enjoy himself. _

_He should have known that their détente, her understanding, couldn't possibly last. _

Mary comes to a halt just as suddenly however and smiles at him. The smile isn't teasing or mocking, it's understanding.

He remembers what she said about not being born Mary Morstan and despite himself he feels his anger ease a little.

"You're right," she says matter-of-factly. "I don't think you crave Molly Hooper's company when you're stoned, I think you crave it all the time. I think you can't help yourself."

Sherlock opens his mouth to correct her but she holds up an admonishing finger, speaks over him with nary a pause.

"I was there, Sherlock, that first day when she slapped you," she says. "I saw your reaction."

Horror and shame well up inside him and Sherlock deflects them as he always does- By summoning up his best look of contempt. "I've already apologised for what I said," he says stiffly. "If you think I'm going to-"

"I don't think, I know." Her tone is so unruffled, it's bloody maddening. Sherlock can feel his hunger for a fix beginning to stretch, to grow. _An addiction can be an awfully easy place to hide._ But Mary carries on, regardless. "I know that you insulted her," she's saying, "that you picked on the one thing which would hurt and enrage her, and I know why you did it."

Sherlock crosses his arms petulantly over his chest. "Oh, really?"

The hunger for a fix is getting worse, it's like his annoyance feeds it. _Doesn't Mary know that? _

Apparently she doesn't. Or she just doesn't care.

Because she leans into him and now her voice is soft, now she's understanding. A night long ago flashes through his memory- _I'll talk him 'round- _and for some reason he wants to push the memory completely away, though he knows he can't.

"Yes, really," she's saying, and she's looking at him, very steadily, as she says it. There's something very… intent in her gaze now. "That first time when she slapped you in St. Bart's, I saw it. I saw _you_. I saw how you reacted when she hit you. It was like a light went on inside, wasn't it? Like suddenly… Suddenly the world had focus. Edges. A boundary, and Jesus but that's attractive when you're in the middle of an addiction." Again, she smiles.

"At least, for people like us."

Sherlock's jaw works. He doesn't- He doesn't like hearing someone else speak his experiences as if they were her own. He doesn't like somebody knowing the shame of what he wanted from Molly that day. He is alone in his skin. He always has been. He always will be.

_He figured that out long ago, and he has Mycroft to prove it. _

So he rallies. "That's nonsense," he snaps, though even _he _wouldn't believe the tone of voice he uses.

"That's the truth," Mary says quietly. "We both know it is. You enjoyed it. You needed it. And you said the most vicious, hurtful thing you could think of because you wanted her to slap you again-"

The words hit Sherlock like a physical blow, though she smiles, kicks off again on her swing as she says them. This time she barely moves.

The silence stretches out, too much emotion in Sherlock, too much feeling, and no idea at all how to express it. She can't be right- _She can't_- And yet… He knows she is.

_Though he's damn well not admitting that out loud. _

Not that it matters. She's not going to shut up about it. "I'd ask if I'm right but I know I am," she's saying now, "so the question becomes what are you going to do about it?" His eyes, quite without his meaning them to, flash up to hers. "I mean, you know you have to do something about it, don't you, Sherlock?"

He goes to shake his head and this time she reaches out. Touches his shoulder. He has to fight the urge to throw her hand off.

_He can't begin to imagine what to do about Molly Hooper and the mess he's made of their relationship, he doesn't know how to. _

So he admits defeat. "There's nothing I _can _do," he says, letting go of the swings' chains and folding his arms across his chest. _A grown man on a swing is ridiculous, in anyways. _"She's already made it clear what she wants-"

"I'd say she has, but not in the way you think."

And Mary goes sailing by him again, her tone once again infuriatingly serene, her legs kicking out against the air.

Sherlock reaches out and grabs her swing. Halts it. "Do stop speaking in riddles, Mrs. Watson," he says.

_He's enough riddles in his head already, without her adding to their number. _

So Mary nods. "Okay, no more riddles. I'll tell you nice and plain." She looks him straight in the eye and he has to fight that old, long-suppressed urge to flinch. "I think you should make sure you're sober and then go to Molly and explain to her that you liked her slapping you," she's saying. "That all of your subsequent behaviour has been about trying to get her to do it again- Which I suspect, it has been."

And she shrugs, as nonchalant as if they were discussing the weather. Sherlock stares at her aghast. _How did she-? How could she-?_

_Other people being right about you is always so bloody mortifying. _

"And then," she's saying, "you tell her that you're sorry for not being honest and see where she takes it." Mary's smile turns practically predatory. "You'll like that, I'm sure; She's already proved she knows how to handle you-"

"You think Molly Hooper can handle me?" he asks, rather than look at the images her words conjure up. _Oh, they are tempting_. "That's preposterous-"

"That's what you want, Sherlock."

"Don't presume to tell me what I want, Mrs. Watson," he snaps. He can feel his anger rising.

"Someone has to tell you," she retorts. "Since you're too chicken-shit to own up to it yourself."

And with a speed and agility he doesn't expect, Mary's out of the swing and on her feet in seconds, reaching forward and yanking him out of his seat. She digs her nails into his nape as she does it, anchoring her grip with another on his bicep and using her own momentum and his weight to swing him downwards and leverage him towards the ground.

Sherlock can handle himself but the speed and unexpectedness of the attack catch him by surprise- And he's very aware that hitting your best friend's wife and the mother of your goddaughter is a Bit Not Good. Besides, the impact of the ground smashing into his body knocks the air out of him, his head smacking into the ground with equal force. Within seconds Mary's on top of him, her knees on the arms she's pressed to his sides, the small, blocky heel of her boots digging, quite painfully and purposefully into his side. The upper swell of his backside.

She really has him pinned but he could fight to get up if he truly wanted to.

_If… If… __**If**__… _

She reaches down so that her hands are on either side of his head, one hand snaking into his hair to tug, very, very sharply, and he lets out an unexpected, undignified little sigh. He can feel his body's reaction to her actions and he feels a little ashamed of himself-

_This is John's __**wife**__. _

But though she has him on his back and she must be able to feel him hardening beneath her, she stares at him with a look which is as far from lust as he can imagine. Nor does she arouse, caress, stroke or otherwise stimulate. This is not sexual to her, he realises. Or rather, he thinks, the pieces finally slotting together in his head, this is not sexual for her because it is with _him_.

_Just as, though this feels arousing, it is nowhere near as distracting as what he felt with Molly that day in St. Bart's, or even this morning when he kissed her. _

A beat stretches of silence stretches out as he ponders this rather surprising new fact.

As is so often the case, it feels more like his remembering something than an entirely new thing in his head.

"Does John know?" he asks quietly then, because he thinks this would be a great deal easier if he wasn't the only one thinking these things and feeling these things and- he forces himself to think it- getting turned on by these things.

Mary merely shakes her head. Her expression is… accepting. Fond. Resigned, more than anything.

"John's about as far from this stuff as you can imagine," she says quietly.

"But you are-"

"I _was._" Her eyes are focussed inwards, seeing a time and a place which resolutely is not here. "I can live without it," she says eventually, "and I would rather do that than try and convert John to it… He's old-fashioned, in his own way, and I'm not sure he'd like to admit this might be something he enjoys." She snorts. "I'm not sure it's something he even _could_ enjoy."

Sherlock finds that he can absolutely understand.

"But you think that I-?" she shoots him a look and he corrects himself- "you say that I should tell Molly that I, um, enjoy this? Because you think she, well, she might enjoy it too?"

He tries to picture his pathologist manhandling him as Mary just has and yes, that feels a great deal more arousing. _A great deal. _

The image of her on top of him burns behind his eyes.

Mary smiles and rolls off him, coming to rest a couple of meters away and tucking her knees up to her chest. It makes her look surprisingly young, but not very vulnerable. Suddenly she is the woman he knows again- Though some tiny part of him wonders whether he knows her at all.

"When Molly slapped you and you insulted her, what happened?" she asks conversationally.

She's rested her chin on her knees and she's once again grinning playfully at him.

Sherlock can feel his cheeks heating up but he forces himself to answer the question.

"She marched as far away from me as possible, and she refused to come near me for the rest of the day-"

Mary nods. "Exactly. You tried to control her, to force her to do something you wanted, and she refused you. In fact, she completely removed herself from you and left you to stew in your own juices, so to speak."

Sherlock nods, not seeing where this is going.

"And that's why she'll be good at this," Mary tells him. "She already instinctively knows how to handle you- Even when you're being a brat. Particularly then." Her grin widens, turns almost obscenely suggestive. "Aren't you a lucky boy, Sherlock?" she says, "to have found someone who turns you on that much?"

He wants to deny it- The needs of the body are embarrassing. Animal. It is his mind he has always been tolerated for.

But just then his phone rings. It's Molly.

It feels as panic-inducing as if it were _Moriarty_.

He looks at Mary in horror but she just grins. "Answer it," she points out sweetly. "After all, _you're_ the one who texted _her_-"

Sherlock puts the phone to his ear and takes the call, but he has absolutely no idea what he's going to say.


	12. Gift

_Disclaimer: _This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to poodle warriors, molescout, Emma Lynch, coloradoandcolorado1, AJP910, Rocking the Redhead, Katya Jade and Bucky5. Things are getting a little hotter in here, methinks... You have been warned.

* * *

- **GIFT -**

* * *

"What the Hell do I do?"

Molly blinks. She mustn't have heard that right- Sherlock sounds like he's talking to someone else, the words directed away from the phone. _And _he sounds panicked.

She hears a distinctly feminine giggle and she blanches, wondering whether he's picked someone up and he's elected to torture her by ringing her to brag about it.

_If he has, he had better be high, _she thinks, and then immediately feels bad for so uncharitable a thought.

"Oh for God's sake, Sherlock," she hears Mary's voice say and she breathes a sigh of relief. "You texted the poor woman _and _you answered your phone, the least you can do is talk to her."

"This was _your _idea," Sherlock snaps.

"Well, then do you want me to talk to her _for_ you?"

For some reason Mary's words sound more like a threat than anything else.

Sherlock mutters the sort of negative the nuns in Molly's old school cracked knuckles over. "What's going on?" she asks. "Whose idea was it?"

"It was my idea, Molly, dear," Mary calls. It's obvious from how far away she sounds that she hasn't been handed the phone. Sherlock seems to still be swearing. "I thought that maybe our dear Mr. Holmes should give you a ring- He's been acting guilty and cross all day, and he says you're the reason for it-"

"Molly is _not _the reason for my behaviour," Sherlock says, and this time he sounds scandalised. _Guilty and cross indeed_. "I didn't- Nothing that has happened between us could be blamed on you, Molly, I do assure you."

And again, Molly hears Mary' s laughter. There's a moment's scuffling across the line, as if Sherlock's dropped the phone or is somehow manhandling it, and then once again he's speaking to her- Or, at least Molly fancies he would be, if he were doing something besides breathing down the line. (She's slightly disturbed that she recognises Sherlock Holmes' breathing patterns, but she doesn't suppose that's a good thing to focus on right now.)

The silence stretches out.

"I'm sorry for the lateness of the text," he says eventually, "but I really did want to talk to you- um, _do _want to talk to you."

He clears his throat. More awkward silence follows this. Molly catches something which sounds like, "Seriously, do you want me to explain it to her, Sherlock? Because I'll draw you little illustrations and everything-" and Sherlock once again embarks on a string of expletives that would do John and most of his former squadron proud, this time aimed at Mary.

They merely seem to make the other woman laugh more.

Molly shifts on her sofa as she waits for his attention to come back to her, carefully chewing on the last jelly-baby in her bag. She's not sure why she's doing this- She's fairly certain no good can come of it. And yet, as soon as she'd seen his text she'd called him, even though she hadn't had the slightest idea what she wanted to say.

This time though Molly's certain she's going to hang up and opens her mouth to tell Sherlock as much. Just as she does however, he clears his throat again and says in a much firmer voice, "CanIcometoseeyouthedayaftertomorrowandtalktoyou?"

She can't be entirely certain, but this time Molly thinks she hears _Mary _swear.

_Yup, there's definitely swearing. In amongst the laughter. Sherlock's swearing too. _

But then he takes a deep breath and says again, more slowly, "Can I come and see you the day after tomorrow and talk to you? Please?" He clears his throat. "Since I'm assuming I said it too fast the first time. And it's too late to come around tonight. And… And I know you're working for the next two days on long shifts."

This is the most genuine she has heard him sound in quite some time and immediately Molly becomes suspicious. Usually such unvarnished honesty from Sherlock Holmes means he wants something. A body part or a favour or attention or, or _something. _

The memory of his kiss from this morning blooms inside her mind and she pushes the thought away.

And yet… It's the only thing about dealing with him when he's high: His capacity for deceit seems to be tied to how sober he is. It's not that he doesn't lie when he's high, it's that he gets really, really _bad _at it. She thinks again about this morning when he kissed her. About last night, when she found him in her bed. She thinks about him, that morning in Bart's when she gave him his second drugs test and he jostled her, crowded her. Touched her. She thinks of how electric her skin feels, when it's pressed against his. She thinks about why he said he broke into her flat last night, how he wanted to not be alone- how he didn't seem to trust himself and how bewildered he was by it- And the answer is obvious.

_Her friend is in freefall and he's asking for her help, _she thinks. _Of __**course**__ she's going to give it._

So she clears her throat. Makes her voice as authoritative as she can. She'll help but that doesn't mean she's an idiot.

"I've the day off on Thursday, Sherlock," she tells him, "but I'll be in my place until 1.30. Would you- Would you like to come around and see me?"

She hears him draw his breath in sharply at her words and she can't imagine why.

"Yes," he says, and it's odd, his voice sounds slightly more… peaceful as he says this. Almost breathless. It sounds like there's a smile in it now. "Shall… Shall I bring biscuits?" he asks. "I'm sure I can deduce your favourites."

There's an odd sort of pride in his voice when he says this, the sort of pride that's purely Sherlock Holmes.

Molly shakes her head- she must be imagining it- even as she thinks about what limits it might be wise to put in place. "Biscuits would be lovely," she says. "But the important thing is that I'll expect you to be sober. And I'll expect you to be polite, Sherlock: I don't want you being rude to me, is that completely clear?"

There's a beat of silence on the other end of the line; She has the oddest feeling that she's offended him and she braces herself for an onslaught of deductions, but when he speaks the words are low. Almost hesitant.

"I will be there, and I will be sober. You have my word on it, my Molly."

His tone has the sound of a vow to it, and she knows he doesn't make vows. Molly's not sure what she should think about that.

_And she's not touching his use of the possessive pronoun with a ten foot barge-pole_.

So she nods- "Good, well then I'll see you then. I'm going to bed now Sherlock-"

And she lets him say his goodbyes before she hangs up and stares at Toby.

She wonders what the Hell she's gotten herself into and she realises that she really doesn't know. Thinking about this is how she eventually falls asleep.

* * *

Sherlock turns to look at Mary.

"Good enough?" he asks.

The woman smiles and nods. Holds out her hand and pulls him to his feet. "It's a start, Sherlock. A good one." Her grin turns wicked again. "Though, seriously, if you can't think how to tell her: Little illustrations… I could use woodland animals. Or Disney bluebirds. Or _The Smurfs, _or something." Now the smile turns filthy. "I used to draw a mean _Thundercats, _you know_… _"

Sherlock's smiling this time as he tells her to bugger off. He won't let her sully his childhood, that's what Mycroft's for.

It's only when he gets back to John's place and she joins her husband that the smile disappears and worry takes its place.

* * *

He turns up at precisely 1.32 pm on Thursday.

Molly wasn't really certain he would follow through, so she's still wearing her trackies, tee and runners when she lets him in. She hasn't even bothered putting her hair up.

As he enters his eyes rake over her and she has to bite back the immediate defensiveness that comes to her: After all, he's told her more than once what he thinks of her physically.

_It's what makes the kiss the other day so mystifying. _

As he enters he holds out a package of her favourite biscuits- as promised- and shoots her an odd, diffident little smile. He hasn't taken his coat off yet, and he's carrying a small package, about the size of an A4 picture frame, in his other hand. It's been rather nicely wrapped in red paper, the twine a lovely gold.

A memory from a Christmas party long ago flashes in her head and she pushes the thought quickly away.

As he stares at her Molly finds herself wondering what the package could possibly be and he must deduce as much because he smiles that little smile again and hands it to her. "It's for you," he says. "It's to apologise for, well, you know."

The pain hits her by surprise, knocks her off balance, though Molly supposes it shouldn't. He wants to apologise for kissing her, she thinks, _of course _he wants to apologise for kissing her. _Silly, silly Molly._

He must have been out of his mind on drugs if he thought that kissing _you _was a good idea.

She nods and tries to smile but his attention is focussed on her and he sees her reaction. "What is it?" he asks her. "What did I do?"

She shakes her head, tries to wave it away, but he is adamant. He pulls out a chair and sits, then belatedly seems to remember his manners and stands, gesturing for her to sit instead.

She folds herself into it, too breathless to argue. He stands and fusses with the kettle, actually manages to fill it and set it to boil. In the time it's taken him to do all this, Molly's managed to get a hold on her feelings; The only thing close to the surface now is embarrassment at having been caught out by them.

Sherlock pulls out another chair and sits down as the water heats. He finally takes off his coat, laying it across the sofa, and for some reason Molly doesn't want to think on suddenly he can't meet her eyes.

"I upset you, didn't I?" he says, and honestly, Molly's more shocked by that than anything else. One of the main reasons Sherlock has survived to adulthood is that you soon learn he's more stupid about people than actively nasty- And he almost never notices when he's caused someone pain.

"I upset you," he says again, and this time she can see he's forcing himself to make eye-contact. She knows how difficult that is for him. So Molly blows out a puff of breath, already knowing where this is heading and knowing that she had best get it over with.

"Yes," she says, tiredly. "You hurt my feelings: No woman likes to hear that she's a mistake, Sherlock."

He blinks, surprised. Obviously she has said something he wasn't expecting.

"I didn't mean that you were a mistake," he says bluntly. "I meant I made a mistake in kissing you, which is obviously not the same thing." Molly opens her mouth to reassure him- honestly, she doubts his attempts at kindness will be anything other than disastrous- but Sherlock, being Sherlock, ploughs on with nary a pause.

"I mean, yes, it was pleasant. Very pleasant." He glances nervously at her as he says this, as if he's worried she'll get cross at hearing such praise. "But, the thing of it is… Well, I wasn't entirely… I mean, I wanted to. And I enjoyed it-"

"You did?" Molly hates herself for asking that question.

_Stupid, stupid vocal-chords. Stupid, stupid heart. _

He nods though, again surprised. "Of course I did," he says. "I initiated it. I- That is to say, I wanted, um, it. A kiss. From you." To her astonishment red starts collecting in his cheeks. His skin is so fair it's quite obvious. "But I do appreciate that I may not have been at my most chivalrous in the aftermath," he's saying. "And I do accept that I handled your surprise badly-"

Now it's Molly's turn to blush. "I asked if you were high," she mumbles.

_This had not been one of her more intelligent moments. _

Sherlock nods. "Yes, and that… I believe that hurt, because… Because I'm tired of everyone assuming everything I do is about scoring, or my habit, and it's not, you know."

Molly cocks an eyebrow. "It isn't?"

He shakes his head vehemently. "No, it's not. I stopped before and I can stop again. " He sounds so certain she almost- _almost_- believes him. "And yes, I do- That is, I ask for you more when I'm high," he continues, "but it has recently been brought to my attention that the context of my requests and their actual causality may in fact have been contra-intuitively characterised by myself-"

"In plain English, Sherlock," she says. "Please."

She's not sure how much more of this she can handle.

He inclines his head politely and she has the strangest feeling that he's… That he's trying to beat around the bush now. And using that extraordinary vocabulary of his to do it. But he takes a deep breath and looks at her, right at her, and says-

Nothing.

At the last minute he stops. His eyes are suddenly downcast.

The red on his cheeks turns positively crimson.

She's about to throw her hands up- literally and figuratively- when he reaches out and gestures to the wrapped package. "Open this, please," he mumbles.

His head is dipped, his body curled slightly in on himself as he says the words.

Molly frowns at him, wishing he would just get to the point already but knowing he won't. So she tears the wrapping paper open; It reveals a painted, wooden box, a small Japanese character (which Molly can't read) carved into its lid and inlaid in gold.

_It is, she must admit, quite beautiful_.

Sherlock's watching her, very carefully, as she frowns at it, her fingers skimming the symbol. His breath catches slightly as she does so but rather than raise her eyes to him she gently pulls off the lid. Looks inside. She's not sure what to make of this.

Slowly, Molly reaches in and strokes her fingers along the length of what appears to be a fan.

It's an old-fashioned one, the sort that they have on the telly, in _Pride and Prejudice _or _Jane Eyre. _The sort that would have been made for a woman long ago but that would have no purpose as a gift for her. _And yet… _

She reaches in and lifts the fan out. It feels light, almost brittle, and she's not sure she should touch it- _Maybe it's an antique? _She thinks, though if it were, why would Sherlock give such a thing to her?

"It wants to be opened," she hears him say softly and when she glances across at him he's watching her from the corner of his eye. "It wants to be opened," he repeats and she nods. Runs her thumb and forefinger over it, spreading what feels like wooden slats and a silk surface. Spreading it open like a book, like a map. Like a secret.

The image on it makes her stop and stare.

It's hand-painted in deft, broad strokes. The ink is black and deepest, deepest violet, the background a translucent, ivory silk. It shows a man, naked, on his back, his arms tied at the wrists and pulled above his head as he twists and writhes for the viewer. His head is turned away, his face in deepest shadow. His hair is dark, that's all that Molly can tell. The artist has drawn him as if she- _and Molly has no doubt it is a she_- is looking up at him from his feet, the contours of his body spread out before her and totally, utterly bare. Hers, for the drawing and the taking. Hers, bared for her eyes and her eyes alone.

The elegance of the line is lovely, minimalist, the artist managing to capture a sense of movement that Molly doubts even a photograph could.

_It is, _she thinks_, the single most beautiful object she has ever touched, let alone seen. _

For a moment all she can do is stare at it, absorbed and fascinated by the image. For some reason she cannot fathom, that morning after the Moran Incident flashes before her eyes, when Sherlock held her hand to his cut face and she became so scared of what she felt that she'd have gladly hopped out of the bed and run. But she doesn't feel that terror now.

No, she doesn't feel anything unpleasant at all.

She's reminded, instead, of the feeling she used to get when she ran downhill as a kid, the sense of tumbling through space but being utterly, utterly safe. Being strong and powerful and in control and giddy.

Sherlock makes some small shuffling noise and she belatedly remembers he's beside her.

Her usual instinct is to blush- for once he'll match her- but instead she peers at him.

There's no need to be shy: He gave her this, after all. She doubts even he could be unaware of the import of giving a piece of sexually explicit art to someone. _He did not accidentally pick this up at Debenhams_, she thinks. Sherlock's staring very hard at his knees, his body tightened in even more on itself as she reaches over to touch him and this time…

This time, he doesn't pull away from her.

"Is there something you want to tell me?" she hears her own voice ask, and it's an odd thing, but she doesn't recall deciding to ask that question.

She doesn't recall deciding that there's any questions to ask.

He nods, uncertain as he brings those electrifying blue eyes up to meet hers. "There are things I need to tell you," he murmurs, "but there are more important things you need to tell me…"

And with that he reaches out and kisses her, for the second time in a week. Her lips burn with the taste of him. His body is warm and pleasant against her own.

This time, it's _her_ hands that steal into his hair, _her_ hands that pull him tighter to her and press their limbs together like so many spider-webs.

Molly Hooper kisses this beautiful man who has kissed her, and thinks of him and the beautiful gift he has given her, and she silently orders herself, on pain of death, not to do anything stupid like ask if he's high. _It's the right decision, she's sure of it._

When the two of them break apart to breathe, she doubts anyone would be able to tell which of them is most likely intoxicated.


	13. Sense

_Disclaimer: _This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to lavanyalabelle, Katya Jade, nowsusieq, Poodle warriors, coolaquariun, SammyKatz, Arcoiris, AJP910, coloradoandcolorado1 and Rocking the Redhead. Yet more naughtiness in this one- and hopefully some important characterisation. You have been warned.

* * *

- **SENSE -**

* * *

Sherlock is staring at her.

Sherlock Holmes is staring at _her. _

Sherlock Holmes is staring at her, Molly Hooper, like he's never seen her before and he can't quite forgive the universe for the oversight.

She honestly can't believe that he's doing it.

But then she can't believe that they just spent the last ten minutes kissing so hard that asphyxiation became an issue either, and that is precisely what has happened. Kissing. Snogging. Hands in new places. A fair amount of groping and- from her at least- pressing her breasts quite shamelessly against his chest. (He makes the most wonderful sounds when she does this. She makes the most wonderful sounds to encourage him. This, she believes, would best be termed a "win/win," scenario for all concerned).

_It__'__s all__…__ It__'__s all quite marvellous and absolutely, bloody surreal, is what it is. _

Sherlock is seated beside her now, breathing heavily, his fair skin now absolutely scarlet. His pupils are dilated, eyes unfocussed and someone- it takes her a moment to remember that it was her- has dishevelled his curls, tugging and pulling them every which way._ She may have gotten a little__…__ bossy with how she was angling his head when she kissed him, _she realises, _and witness the result._ Not that he's complaining though. His tie is askew and half-open. Two of his shirt buttons have been undone and one has popped off. He doesn't look in the least put out by this. She isn't put off by it either.

"That was…" His voice is lower than she's ever heard it and oh, but Molly likes that.

He must notice her reaction because he trails off for a moment, stares at her curiously.

Molly licks her lips. "You were saying?" she says- _is that even her voice?- _and she can see him trying to work it out, the correlation between his speaking and her arousal.

He looks a little flummoxed by it.

"Yes, well," he clears his throat and Molly can't help it, she smiles. Leans into his space. Now she's started touching him, she doesn't want to stop. Again he notices it, again he seems not to understand the causality but this time he continues. "That was… Good." He looks embarrassed. "Very, um, good."

Molly can feel the little bubble of confidence which had enveloped her start to waver. She's used to Good meaning Not Great or Okay or Really, I Was Just Trying To Chat Up Your Fit Mate Over There And Not You, Morgue Girl.

_Good isn__'__t really __**good**__, is it_? She thinks.

But then she sees him, looking up at her from beneath his lashes, his expression still unsure and she remembers: This is Sherlock. This is the man who once accidentally accused her of being a borderline alcoholic when he wanted a favour. This is the man who managed to insult John's entire wedding party with his best man speech. Words are not his strong suit. Emotions aren't either. And he was so nervous about showing her his gift that he was practically vibrating by the time she got it open-

So "good," may be the best he can come up with, she realises. "Good," may be flippin' poetry, compared to what he would have come out with, even a year ago.

"_Good,__"__ may actually be how he feels, and oh, but that is a fragile, lovely thought. _

Molly makes herself take a deep breath and rakes a hand through her hair, trying to gather her scrambled feelings. She doesn't want to think with her hormones and say the wrong bloody thing. She isn't an idiot, she can guess what coming here and showing her that image cost him: It's never easy, admitting what you want, and if what you want is so far outside the norm then she supposes it would be terrifying… Perhaps more for a man like him than anyone else.

She doesn't need to have met Mycroft to understand the Holmes' penchant for appearances.

_And yet__…_

"Molly?" Sherlock asks and she sees him, looking at her shyly. "Molly are you alright?"

He's peering up at her as if he's afraid he's hurt her or something and she feels it then, a jolt of protectiveness. It's surprisingly powerful.

Her eyes are lured back to the image on the fan, and just for a moment she imagines Sherlock in that scenario, tied up and helpless and ready for her. In her hands, in more ways than one. Given into her keeping. Such vulnerability isn't easy for anyone, she thinks. Such vulnerability should be _safeguarded_.

And judging by the look on his face right now, he's as frightened of her disappointment in him as she is of his in her.

So she stands- her knees are wobbly- and picks up the fan. Strokes her fingers along it and then walks back to Sherlock.

She halts before him, the fan held in front of his eyes.

"Is this you?" she asks, and she gestures to the nameless man painted on Sherlock's gift. "Is this… Is this something you've done before? Something that you want?"

For a moment she sees his expression close, annoyance and frustration nearly taking over- And then he fights them back. Shakes his head.

He turns his gaze up to hers.

With slow, hesitant hands, he reaches out and takes her hips. Pulls her slightly closer to him. She can feel the weight of his hands, his arms, the pressure of all ten fingers digging into her hipbones and the swell of her backside but she doesn't move to throw him off. She doesn't want to.

His thumbs trace half-moons on her hip-bones as he speaks.

"This is not me," he says, very quietly, gesturing to the image. His voice is… She's never heard him sound like this before. "I've never… I know the artist. I know her work. And finding anything in London is just a matter of knowing where to look." He shoots her a crooked little smile. "But I could never allow myself…It's a matter of trust, you see. I can't- I can't ever let anyone- "

And he trails off. He looks… He looks almost ashamed of himself for being strong enough to admit that.

Molly feels one of his hands scrunch the fabric of her tracksuit bottoms together, his knuckles pressed into her skin.

He's shaking now, his eyes turned away from hers.

Without thinking her free hand reaches out and strokes his hair. It's actually nicer, now that she can appreciate the texture. Her fingers trail down each muscle and bump on his skull and he sighs. Turns his head and leans into her. His forehead comes to rest on her abdomen and she can feel, indistinctly, the press of his eyebrows and then nose against her flesh. His arms curve upwards, coming to rest on the small of her back, the press of his forearms framing her arse. She feels reassured, the one thing she never feels with Sherlock, and even as she thinks it, she realises what she wants to say.

"Sherlock," she says, "do you… Do you want _me _to do that to you? Do you-" For some reason she can't fathom, she's having trouble breathing, let alone speaking. "Do you want me to tie you up?" she asks. "Or, or… Do other things?"

Molly knows she has to speak the question aloud, even if she thinks she knows the answer.

She expects him to look at her but he doesn't. Instead, he nods, his eyes pressed shut.

"Yes," he murmurs, and it's so quiet that Molly thinks she might not have heard it at all. "Yes," he keeps saying, "yes, my Molly…"

And he leans forward and presses a kiss to her belly, through her t-shirt. His arms tighten on her, his elbows pressing more firmly into the swell of her arse and she feels arousal starting to build, wetness like honey between her thighs. _She wants so much to be close to him_…

So she shifts until she's pressed between Sherlock's knees; Her thigh brushes against his crotch and she can feel that, yes, he's definitely enjoying himself now. _In fact, it feels like he's been enjoying this for a while._ This move could easily take things beyond the casual -or even the clothed- and she's smart enough to know that. His lips, tongue and nose have found their way under her shirt now, they're investigating the warm flesh of her navel and stomach, and she's smart enough to know that this is probably not the end of his investigations for the day either.

And yet, she doesn't move away from him. She doesn't _want_ to.

She can't imagine moving away from him ever again, not with his mouth and his hands and his tongue doing the things they're doing right now.

So she cards her hands through his hair, allows him to continue his ministrations. She does, however, accept that she needs to get clarification on what "other things," Sherlock might want her to do to him- At some point_. At some point that isn't now_. Because as touched as she is that he trusts her enough to be honest, she has no real idea what else he might have in mind- _This is honestly all going rather fast_-

And there are so many questions, so many things she doesn't know about him. Does he just want her to tie him up? Does he want her to hurt him too? The noises he makes when she pulls his hair would seem to suggest that he wants more than to simply struggle against ropes; Several old jokes about public school boys and spanking flash through her mind - _she never wants to hurt him, even as she feels a jolt of excitement at the thought_- A jolt she tries to push it away.

His hands have found their way under her t-shirt and are currently caressing her shoulder-blades, her breasts, and that's not exactly helpful for clarifying matters.

But her mind won't be quiet. _What if that's not all he wants?_ She thinks. What if he wants her to hit him? What if he wants to hit _her_? What if he wants her to wear some sort of gimp mask or a rubber cat-suit? What if he wants to tie her up too, is that something _she _wants? And what if there are things she does want, things that are important to her, that he won't countenance? What then? Where will she stand with him _then_?

_And what happens tomorrow, when all this snogging and hair-tugging and secret sharing is over? Does she go back to being plain old Molly Hooper, and he goes back to being the extraordinary Master of Dismissal, Sherlock Holmes?_

She just doesn't know and that just isn't good enough; In the past it might well have been, but it isn't good enough now.

_She's not the girl who watched him jump off St. Bart's roof nearly four years ago anymore_.

So some inner reserve of common sense, one which usually completely abandons her in Sherlock's presence, digs its heels in. Demands she bring this to a halt and make him talk to her. Make him at least do her the courtesy of telling her where she stands. _Pulling his hair and snogging him senseless is all fine and well, Molly, _this sage voice points out, _but it's not much use to you if you wake up tomorrow morning and he's done a runner again, now is it? And what if he turns up on your doorstep, stoned off his head in a month's time, and you're afraid of him again? _

Molly wants to dismiss this argument, but she can't. Her mind won't let her. As much as her body likes what he's doing to it right now, she knows they have to stop.

So, as gently as she can- _using force is probably going to be counter-productive, with Sherlock_- she tugs his head away from her body.

He frowns up at her, confused, and she shakes her head. Moves out of the circle of his arms to the other side of the room.

She doesn't really trust herself to touch him.

She half expects him to complain- _once you get to the point they were at most men would do_- but to her surprise he blinks and then offers her a smile which could only be described as… goofy. He certainly doesn't look angry at her, and he isn't spitting deductions like knives either.

She shakes her head, confused, and his smile dims a little.

"You didn't like it," he says. He sounds so… disappointed. "I thought… I thought if I showed you then you wouldn't mind what I want- What I'm suggesting-"

_And that, right there, is why talking about this is a good idea, _her common sense points out tartly. Because-

"You thought you had to… what? Earn my, my-"

She's not even sure what to call it so she gestures to the fan.

Sherlock nods. He is oddly earnest. "I know," he says. "I know what I'm asking isn't normal. It's not what you'd want with someone. You're- You're lovely, no matter what Mary says. You're not, well, a freak like me. But…"

He shakes his head. Suddenly he looks annoyed. Confused. And annoyed with himself for being confused. He doesn't really have the tools for talking about his sort of thing, Molly knows that, and at this moment it's obvious.

So for what feels like the hundredth time today she takes a deep breath and smiles. Moves closer to him. _This may take a while, _she thinks.

"Just tell me what you want," she says. "Don't worry- I won't ever stop caring about you, Sherlock. And I won't ever repeat what you tell me, even to Mycroft or John. I- I promise."

And she reaches out and places her hand on the top of his. To her surprise, he turns his hand around so that they're palm to palm and slowly, almost shyly, curls his fingers around hers.

It is only with great difficulty that Molly forces herself not to start kissing him again as he does this. _Turns out the git has form and he doesn't even know it. _But she still wants answers, so she forges on.

"Just tell me what it is that you want me to do to you, Sherlock," she says instead, and this time it's her voice that's hesitant. She's… She's getting to the point where asking him is starting to feel like begging or badgering, and she doesn't want to do either of those. "I just… I think you want me to tie you up-"

"Yes." This time his tone is certain and it occurs to Molly that she may have been going about this the wrong way.

Maybe she needs to be a little more assertive, considering what he wants from her. So-

"And do you want me to…to…" She thinks about his kisses. "Do you want me to pull your hair? Be, be rough with you?"

"Yes," he says, not so quickly this time. His pupils are starting to dilate again, his eyes flicking down to her mouth, and Molly knows she probably has her answer right there.

So she decides to try an experiment.

"Yes, what?" She makes her voice stronger. Harsher. He blinks at her and now she can see the arousal in his expression. The desire to… to please? _The desire to please __**her**__? _

_Oh my. _

"Yes, please, my Molly," he says and she hears it again, that peculiar way he says her name. His voice seems to caress it.

Emboldened, Molly decides to try another experiment.

"And what else do you want your Molly to do to you?" she demands. She uses the same clipped, sharp tone again. "Be specific," she says.

"Specific?" His eyes are growing heavy, she sees she's getting to him.

"And by specific, I mean filthy," she says, surprised by her own boldness. "And don't interrupt me." He blinks at this and she raises her voice. again "I said, tell. Me. What. You. Want." She stands, glances down at him imperiously. "Now.

Or suffer the consequences."

She's surprised by how freeing it feels, giving him orders.

She looks at him, worried that she's gone to far, but he's staring up at her with the same hunger she saw in him when he spoke about faking his death. The same manic energy. The world has narrowed to one point, one thing, and it has his entire, scintillating, fascinating attention- She feels goose-bumps rise on her skin when she thinks that she did that to him. And then-

"This is what I want you to do to me, my Molly," he tells her, and with that he takes a deep breath and begins to describe things… Things that Molly can't even believe she likes the sound of. Things that Molly can't believe a man like him would want from her.

But like them she does, and want them he certainly does.

She sits and listens to Sherlock Holmes describe every filthy thought he's ever had about his pathologist, and though she finds herself surprised by some of his desires there's nothing he says that frightens her.


	14. Exchange

_Disclaimer: _This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to kraftykathy, Poodle warriors, Emma Lynch, lavanyalabelle, Equal-Opportunity-Reader and Katya Jade. Be aware, there's more D/s shenanigans in this one and some (naked) character development. You have been warned...

* * *

- **EXCHANGE -**

* * *

The first thing that Molly tells him is that he's going into rehab.

She does not present this to him as a choice, simply as a prerequisite for their doing anything more together.

Sherlock knows that he should be angry with her for ordering him- He's been ordered into rehab by just about everyone he loves at some point in his life, it's the Holmes' family version of golf- but when Molly says it, somehow, he doesn't mind it.

After all, when he wanted an excuse to break his sobriety, he found a case which allowed him to do it.

(He may not want to admit that to John or Mycroft, but he knows it's the truth).

And now, now that he wants an excuse to save himself, broken, twisted, blackened thing that he is, now Molly is providing that excuse.

(Maybe he knew that she would, maybe it's one of the reasons he wants her so badly).

_And maybe if she wants to save him then he's actually worth being saved. _

So he agrees. She says she will do the things he asks so long as he is clean when he asks them; She refuses to engage in any activity with him if his consent is in any way dubious and furthermore, she informs him that if he breaks his sobriety again she will, "kick his skinny arse to the curb."

Resistance is therefore not so much futile as idiotic.

Sherlock suspects that he would be able to talk her around, even if he did have a lapse- _his Molly loves him, he __**knows**__ that. _But though he may feel reassured in his belief that he can never lose her, the thought of her, worrying and pining and hating herself for giving in despite the fact that he's broken their agreement, _that _sets something gnawing at Sherlock which in another man might almost be called… conscience.

_Conscience, _he thinks. _Where the bloody hell did that come from? _

Rather than examine any unwanted (and hither-fore _unsuspected_) emotional growth however, he merely promises himself and her that he will stay clean. He will. He's done it before, he can do it again. It's what she wants from him. It's what he's promised to give her.

And if he does that then she says that she will restrain him. Hurt him. Make his fantasies reality, take over from him when it all becomes too much. She'll keep him safe, she promised.

And maybe she'll even find some way to keep him safe from himself.

So he does as she asks, goes through with his side of their bargain. The very thought of it makes Sherlock's bones vibrate with longing, the image of Molly's lovely mouth giving him her consent enough to get him through thirty dreary days of group therapy and visits from Mycroft and the Watsons and all sorts of texts and phone-calls from Lestrade and his people in the Yard.

It's not like he _really_ needs to be here, he tells himself sometimes. It's not like he actually was an addict again.

_It's not like he'll give into his appetite for drugs now that he has his Molly_.

Whenever he thinks that he finds himself remembering John's sad, overly-cheerful expression from his visits. Remembers Mary's hawk-like gaze. Neither seem to believe what he's telling them but Sherlock doesn't care, at least that's what he tells himself.

He must do a reasonable impression of a cured addict though because they tell him he's free to go at the end of his thirty days, and the only person who's actually surprised by this is Sherlock. Surprised, and, little as he is willing to admit it, a mite disappointed.

He won't dwell on that though, not when he's getting out of here.

So he smiles and does his best to act naturally when John and Mary turn up to give him a lift to Baker Street. (He's already texted Molly to tell her that's where he's being brought. She says, and this is the exciting bit, that she'll be over tonight. She's been doing some research.)

Mycroft has sent a town-car but Sherlock cheerfully refuses it, telling Anthea exactly where his brother can stick his offer. Anthea, by virtue of having been around the Holmes' Brothers for years, elects not to communicate this message directly and instead merely wishes him luck, waving to John and Mary before heading out to convey the spirit (rather than the letter) of the message to her boss.

"That went well," John says as she pulls out, though for some reason Mary is watching the government car go with something of a bitter eye.

"It did," Sherlock says, determined not to get involved in another domestic. (It looks almost as if Mary is somehow… irritated with Anthea. _How odd_). "Anyhow," he says in his best cheerful voice, "how about you get me home? Haven't slept in my bed in a month, you know. It's been all doing my own cleaning and not taking opiates and baring my soul. Very dull."

"We know," John says. He looks at his friend in the car's rear-view mirror, the tips of his ears turning pink. "Well done, mate," he tells Sherlock earnestly after a moment. "I know that wasn't easy, but fair dues to you. I knew you had it in you."

Sherlock smiles and preens- _there are few things he likes better than John Watson being pleased with him-_ but when his eyes catch Mary's she says nothing.

She doesn't look suspicious or anything, she merely doesn't congratulate him.

He remembers her words that night on the swings, about addictions and people like us, and try as he might he can't keep himself from feeling a tiny hint of worry.

This lasts as long as it takes him to get back to Baker Street and for Mrs. Hudson to start to fuss and then it deserts him. He finds all his laundry done and his tea waiting, and just for a moment it's like he never left. After John and Mary leave Mrs. Hudson tells him she's heading out for an evening with a "friend," (_Mr. Gupta. Widower. No wife in Doncaster- or anywhere else- this time. Minor marijuana habit, but that can be overlooked. Sherlock approves_.)

She tells him to call if he needs anything, but Sherlock waves her off. Takes up his violin and starts playing a tune that's been going around in his head for a month.

He doesn't want to tell her but he thinks it may be Molly's; He so rarely wants to compose and yet this tune has been running through his mind like a good memory, over and over again.

_Molly is the only entirely good memory he has right now, so he thinks that it must be down to her. _

Mycroft texts him but he ignores it, only answering when it occurs to him that his brother may actually send operatives to check on him. The elder Holmes seems pleased (well, as pleased as he ever is) with Sherlock's recovery and for this reason his answering text is almost… chipper. Bordering on upbeat. Sherlock would engage in their usual tête-à-tête (or as John terms it, Their Satanic Majesties' Pissing Contest) but he's waiting to hear from Molly so that takes up a great deal more of his attention.

An hour passes, then two, and still he hears nothing.

Worry starts to set in.

He's just about to put on his coat and go over to hers when he hears the doorbell ring. He can tell by the length of the press that it's not a client- He thunders down the stairs, pulls open the door and prepares to greet her with just about anything she asks for.

Instead though, he finds her standing in her tatty old coat, a taxi at the curb.

"We're not doing this here," she tells him by way of greeting. Her expression is… guarded. Cold. Something in Sherlock shrinks slightly, at the sight of it.

"Don't you want to come in?" he asks.

She shakes her head, her arms tightening on herself against the evening's chill. "Go upstairs, get your coat and wallet," she says instead. "You're paying for the taxi.

Bring anything you need for the morning."

Sherlock looks at her face, sees the coldness in it. The distance. For some reason he doesn't want to examine, Irene Adler and that awful night in Karachi pop into his head. The Woman had looked at him like that when he offered her his company and his body.

It's why he hadn't been able to go through with it in the end.

But that look had been natural on Adler, part of who she was. Part of _what _she was. It was the look which had finally convinced him that he could stop torturing himself, that he wasn't in love with Irene bloody Adler, that he hadn't made a mistake in letting her go.

Seeing it on Molly's face is… wrong. She shouldn't look like that, she just shouldn't.

Not knowing what to do however- he asked this of her, he told her it was what he wanted- Sherlock does as he's told. Fetches his coat and his wallet.

His violin lies, forgotten, on the sofa because suddenly there's no Molly-Tune in his head.

She doesn't speak in the car, doesn't touch him. She certainly doesn't kiss him and that- Sherlock realises that he had been looking forward to _that _more than almost anything else. Molly didn't kiss with half her attention, she throws herself into it. There's no halfway with her, you just get dragged along in her wake, basking in how good it feels. Sherlock knows that he has little experience and he suspects that she has more but it has never worried him, because you can't be worried when you're being kissed by Molly Hooper, it's a physical impossibility. And yet-

She gestures imperiously and he pays the cabbie. He trails up her building's steps after her, silent as she unlocks her flat and lets him inside. She goes to the small two-seater sofa in her living room and when he moves to join her she holds her hand out. Halts him.

He blinks at her in surprise.

"From here on in," she says. "You ask permission for everything, and you do as you're told, is that clear, Mr. Holmes?"

He can hear the arousal in her voice when she refers to him like that, and it makes him feel some modicum better.

"I said, is that clear Mr. Holmes?" she repeats and he nods. Clears his throat.

"Yes," he says.

"Yes, what?"

He thinks of what he called her the night she told him he was going into rehab. "Yes, my Molly," he says quietly.

He sees something, some flash of emotion move through her face as he says that. For a split second she is flustered. For a split second she _is _his Molly again.

But then the cold mask is back and she cocks a cynical eyebrow.

"There are a great many other words for a woman who does what you're asking me to do," she says. "Pick one, or I'll choose for you."

Sherlock feels a tug of hurt at her words. _Where is the Molly who accepted his gift and kissed him and stroked his hair last time? _He wonders. _**She**__ was happy to be his Molly. _

Maybe that Molly was an illusion. Maybe that Molly only exists in his head.

He looks at the woman before him, sees her stare back, almost daring him to say anything- And then suddenly she breaks eye-contact. Her fair skin flushes scarlet and she doesn't want to look at him.

For the first time tonight, he thinks they might be on the same page, and that page is the dictionary definition of _confused. _

"I'm sorry," she says then. "I know you want a proper domina, but- I don't think I can do this, Sherlock." She looks up at him, the brown eyes plaintive. "I can't- I can't talk to you as if I don't care about you," she says. "I could never do that-"

"What on Earth makes you think you have to?"

Sherlock doesn't mean to say the words quite so loud, but really. He would have thought Molly too clever to buy into all those myths about BDSM, myths which even he, the so-called "Virgin," had known to take with a pinch of salt.

She blinks at him though, her expression almost hurt and inwardly he winces. Maybe he should have talked to her more that day when he gave her the fan: He told her everything he wanted for himself, but he didn't explain what he wanted from her.

Maybe that's how she got the idea that he would want her to behave like some sort of evil version of herself, or perhaps some sort of femme fatale, like Adler-

It clicks then. Of course, _she _would be the logical place to start Molly's research. His pathologist is nothing, if not thorough. And thanks to John's blog, The Woman is his best known weakness.

It occurs to Sherlock that if Irene Adler could see the trouble she's causing he and Molly right now, she might well laugh her arse off.

"You looked up The Woman, didn't you?" he says, and Molly's silent, mortified nod is more than enough to tell him he's correct.

For once, he really wishes he wasn't.

"It seemed like the place to start," she says quietly. "You- You liked her so much, you were so fascinated with her-"

"And I left her in Karachi without even being able to bring myself to undress for her," he says, speaking over her.

He supposes he should be embarrassed about that last detail but really, if Molly's upset he has more important things to be getting on with.

At Molly's surprised blink he sighs. Rakes his hands through his hair. He has a feeling explaining this is going to be mortifying. "I tried," he says quietly, "Did I not say as much? And the person I tried with was Irene Adler. But she couldn't- I mean, _I_ couldn't-"

Molly stands. Closes the space between them.

Suddenly, she's merely an arms' length away.

"She couldn't take care of you?" she asks, and there's something odd in her voice, something sweet and kind and longing and, and _hopeful, _that just stops Sherlock in his tracks. Makes him stare at her.

She blushes under his scrutiny, and oh but it's a long time since she's done that. He hadn't realised he missed it.

He nods. "Yes," he says, very quietly. "She couldn't…" He makes himself say the words. "She couldn't take care of me. I couldn't- I couldn't have ever turned my back on her, even for a moment. She's not at all like you."

And he reaches out, very hesitantly, and places his palm upon Molly's cheek. The fall of her hair whispers against his fingers. Molly closes her eyes at his touch, leans into it. Her own hand steals up to come to rest directly on his heart and without his bidding it to, his free hand comes up to cover it.

They stay like that for a moment, simply breathing together and then Molly opens her eyes. This time they're warm. Open.

They rest on Sherlock with a palpable weight.

"Undress for me," she says, very quietly, and it's different this time. The tone of voice, it sends a shiver right up Sherlock's spine. He feels lost in it. He can feel his blood start to slow, to thicken. It pools, languid as lava, in his veins.

She stares up at him with heavy-lidded eyes and he feels like they are the only two people left in the world.

"How do you want me to undress, my Molly?" he asks, and this time when he says it she smiles at him. The hand on his chest trails down, lightly, slowly, to trace his abdominals, his belly. The sensitive flesh below it.

For a moment he thinks she'll trace the line of his crotch but instead her hand slides around. Moves to tease his right arse-cheek. It fills her palm, she squeezes, and really, he's surprised by how good it feels.

His hips jerk a little in response, his cock hardening, and that feels good too.

"Slowly," she says, whispering the words, singsong, into his ear. "Take your time. Let me see you."

Sherlock cocks a cynical eyebrow. "You don't expect me to dance or something, do you?"

She snorts with laughter and despite himself, Sherlock smiles too. "No, your nudity will be sufficiently entertaining," she says. "Unless dancing is one of your kinks as well?"

An image pops into his head, he and Molly naked, her standing on his feet and her head rested on his chest as they sway. It looks awfully peaceful.

But that's for another day, a day far in the future, and so he shakes his head. Reaches down and shyly rests his forehead against hers. "Nope," he says, popping his Ps. "But I'll let you… I'll let you see as much of me as I can."

Suddenly Molly's taken his face in her hands, tilted it down towards her. "Show me as much as you're willing," she says quietly. "As much as you're _able_. Nothing more."

She kisses him and if he'd had any doubts, ever, about how Karachi turned out they'd be dismissed right there.

She steps away from him and returns to the sofa. Their eyes meet, lock, as his hands move up to loosen his tie. It's actually quite distracting, trying to remember how to open the knot with those big brown eyes staring at him, but eventually he manages it. Pulls the tie loose and over his head, places it over the back of the kitchen chair to his right.

The buttons of his shirt are similarly difficult, finicky, but he manages to get them open. He places his cufflinks beside his tie as he slides the shirt off, as he tries to fight back the flash of annoyance, of vulnerability, which he feels as he stands before Molly without so much of the armour he normally wears.

She however merely stares, her eyes widening in appreciation. Sherlock had always known that women found him attractive, but this feels different. Molly knows the worst of him and she can still stare at him like _that. _As he thinks this he moves onto his trousers, reaching down and opening his belt, trying not to notice the way Molly's tongue darts out to lick her lips as he pulls the leather loose-

He's about to set it beside his tie and cufflinks but she holds her hands out.

Without hesitation, he places it onto her flattened palms, inclining his head slightly as he does so. Trying not to swallow too hard as she runs her hand delicately up its length.

_Those small hands have a fierce grip_, he thinks.

"You may proceed," she says quietly, and he has no idea why but Sherlock can feel the blood rush to his face, the redness swarming underneath his skin even as his cock swells to a greater hardness-

"You're nearly there," she says quietly. "Show me the rest. Please."

For a moment her hand twitches, as if she means to reach out and touch him again, but at the last moment she pulls back. Her knuckles tighten around his belt.

Sherlock swallows, undoes the buttons of his trousers and pulls them and his underwear down at the same time. He wonders whether she will object at the shortcut but she says nothing. Again her eyes are widened in appreciation of the show. He kneels down and opens his shoe-laces, toes off both socks and shoes and when he stands up he is absolutely naked.

He normally has no problem with nudity.

He's not feeling terribly normal at present.

He looks at his feet- _Where the Hell else is he going to look?- _and as he does so he sees the toes of Molly's shoes enter his field of vision.

When he glances up she's standing close to him, the belt held in her hands.

"I originally wanted to tie you up with this," she says, very quietly, and her eyes are fastened, as his are, on his shoes. "I thought of you like that, held in place for me by something which was still warmed by your body heat. It… It made me feel wicked." Her eyes flash up to him suddenly. "Do you think that's wicked, Sherlock?"

He nods. "Yes, my Molly."

She swallows, looking a little nervous. "Good," she says. "I was thinking that you'd like that. I know I would." She shakes her head with mock-mournfulness.

"Unfortunately however, I'm afraid I can't do it," she says. "The leather, it might dig into your wrists. Might mar this beautiful, beautiful skin. Chafing would be noticed- so many questions at Scotland Yard- and I know I don't want to injure you…"

Her fingers reach out, trail against his wrist, up his arm. For some reason he can't imagine, it feels quite familiar.

She's watching him very carefully as she does it, those eyes dark and wide.

Sherlock swallows. "So what will you do to me?" he asks, and this time it's his voice that's thick, his tongue that feels heavy.

Molly's looking at him awfully closely, her expression intent. There's a knowing sort of wildness in her now

"Why, I suppose I'll have to tie you up with something else and use the belt on you," she says matter-of-factly. Sherlock's cock practically leaps at her words; he feels, for a moment, almost like a trained hound. "Would you like me to use this belt on you?" she asks quietly. "You have to say the words, Sherlock."

He takes a deep breath, tries to steady himself. "My Molly, will you please use my belt on me?"

She nods.

"Yes. Now take your hands and place them on the wall."

She nods to the one behind her, right beside her bedroom door. He goes to the precise spot she indicated, places his palms flat against the panelling, right beside the doorjamb. She taps his knees so that his legs are farther apart and he feels another shiver go down his spine. It feels oddly freeing, to be so open.

"You will not move," she says softly. "You will not flinch. If you do, I will stop. Is that entirely understood, Mr. Holmes?"

He nods. He can't… He's having trouble speaking right now.

_No, he's having trouble __**thinking**__ right now. _

Molly leans in close to him, her skin, her hair, almost touching him, and whispers, "pick a number between one and ten."

He doesn't hesitate. He knows what she's asking.

"Ten," he says, his throat tightening with the effort. "Ten. Please."

It's not a lot to start on, but he needs her to see what he can take.

Ten lashes slash into his flesh.

Ten lashes show him precisely how much his Molly wants to please him.

When she's given them she turns him around, presses him back against the cooling wood of the door as she kisses him. Her fingers soothe the soreness from his flesh as she holds him tight. As she coos at him how well he did, how beautiful he looked spread out for her.

_She really is very beautiful, _he thinks, _with a weapon in her hand._

* * *

She takes him to bed with her, and she never removes a stitch of her clothing. Sherlock sleeps good and well that night, knowing that this was a beginning.

A small one.

A good one.

He wakes up the next day next to Molly Hooper and he can't help the way he smiles at her, though he knows she's still asleep.

The belt lies, forgotten, on the floor beside them as the sun creeps in through her blinds.


	15. Kinks

_Disclaimer: _This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to molliquin, Equal-Opportunity-Reader, LadyK1138, Poodle warriors, ctrtardis, coolaquiriun, lavanyalabelle and Katya Jade. More naughtiness, and something possibly resembling fluff ahead... You have been warned...

* * *

- **KINKS -**

* * *

When Molly wakes up the next morning, she's a little surprised to find Sherlock still in her bed; Some tiny part of her had assumed that he'd sneak out in the night, or go into the other room or, or _something_, rather than sleeping next to her.

Needless to say, she's a little surprised.

_Surprised and… uneasy. _

She can feel the length of him pressed her back, one arm flung over her hip, his palm cupping her breast. His breath whispers against the back of her neck, wet and warm and deep, and his legs are tangled with hers, the long limbs heavy against her own.

It's like sleeping with a particularly sexy octopus.

Despite her disquiet, Molly stills and let herself enjoy the moment, the feel of him here beside her. She's slept with a lot of tall men- that's her kink, not sociopathic tendencies, no matter _what _Sherlock says- and she's always loved this, the feeling of being small. Surrounded. There are so few times in her life when she can permit herself the luxury of it- She's always had to fight for everything she has tooth and nail. _It__'__s the joy of being a petite, little woman in a big man__'__s world._ But that's not necessary here, not with Sherlock…

She thinks of how it felt last night to have him to herself. To order him to do as she pleased, simply because it pleased her. The memory of it makes her heart (literally) skip a beat.

So she strokes her hand lightly up Sherlock's arm, bringing her fingers to rest on his, there where they squeeze her breast. She presses herself back against him. His grip on her breast tightens as his chest warms her shoulder-blades. He moans a little as it does, shifts, and Molly feels his length hardening against her arse.

It feels… It feels very, very good. _Wonderful, in point of fact. _

Her own body warms, loosens in anticipation. She's getting wet, and they've barely even touched one another- _But then, she__'__s been turned on ever since the moment she told him to strip for her last night._ So she presses her hips and arse back against him again, knowing what she wants but not knowing whether he's awake enough yet to give it-

The hand at her breast loosens, strokes down to skim her belly and then lower. Much lower.

It curls warmly against her mound, those long, clever fingers teasing and then parting her.

Molly holds her breath, enjoying the sensation; She's always wondered what those fingers would feel like, playing there, and now she knows. It's better than she imagined.

As Sherlock continues his half-asleep ministrations, she silently debates the morality of having her first completely sexual encounter with him while he's not quite awake enough to realise what he's doing and as she does so it occurs to her just how strange a relationship they have now. She'll slap his backside several shades of blue, but she won't let him get her off with his fingers while he's not awake enough to consent to it.

_Truly, this is a unique relationship quandary, _she muses_. I don__'__t recall this ever being mentioned in Cosmo. _

"You're thinking awfully loudly, Molly," he says then. His voice is scratchy with sleepiness.

She blinks, surprised- she hadn't realised that she'd woken him- and when she twists around to look at him he gives her this crooked little grin. His hair's every which way and his eyes are still bleary. He looks like he just tumbled straight out of the arms of Morpheus and, she is forced to admit, it's a good look. On him, everything seems to be a good look.

_A sexy, sexy octopus indeed, _she thinks.

Thankfully however she does not say that out loud.

"I didn't mean to wake you," she says instead. She strokes her fingers down to his and tangles them together, distracting him from the mischief he's making between her legs. He actually pouts at her and she rolls her eyes. Grins. Feeling brave, she brings their joined hands up to her mouth and kisses it. She can smell herself on his fingers, and she doesn't know why but she likes it.

"I understand there's an easy way to tell when a woman's trying to wake you," Sherlock says, his voice the very definition of innocent. _He__'__s decided to ignore her apology then_.

"Oh?" Molly asks, playing along. "And what's that?"

Again that sleepy, crooked grin. "Why, you merely pay attention to her lips," he says, and as he does so he leans down to kiss her mouth, his free hand curling up her thigh to stroke against her _other_ lips once more. It feels… _It feels lovely. _Absolutely sinful.

Molly moans a little, presses herself down against his fingers as she tilts her head back against her pillow. He really is far too good at that for a man who claims to have little experience. Using his weight he rolls her onto her back, his mouth leaving hers to press wet, swift kisses into the flesh at her throat. Her shoulders. His hand keeps up its teasing, gentle pressure between her legs. As his head disappears beneath the hem of the black dress she wore for him last night (and slept in) and Molly tugs at the garment, pulling it over her head and off. _It__'__s just as well, it__'__s a mass of creases and probably smells, _she thinks to herself.

This is apparently the right thing to do because Sherlock grins at her now-naked body and nods to himself, pleased. "There you are, my Molly," he says, pressing two small kisses to her eyelids and despite herself Molly beams.

He's running his nose gentle along her cheek and it feels exquisite. He keeps saying her name.

"You didn't like the dress?" she asks breathlessly.

He shakes her head. He's kissed his way down her torso and now he's looking up at her from between her legs.

With a jolt it occurs to Molly that she never wants him to leave that position.

_It will make his work with Scotland Yard difficult, and Lord knows the grieving relatives she deals with in Bart__'__s will complain, but somehow, they__'__ll manage. _

"Didn't look like you," he's saying. "You were trying to be like The Woman. I didn't like that…" And he goes back to kissing her belly, her chest.

His fingers are very, _very_ clever.

She wasn't wearing a bra last night and now he's investigating the topography of her breasts, which is, to put it mildly, distracting. _Quite the avid explorer, her Sherlock is… _

Molly can't quite concentrate on what he's doing though. She won't deny it- sheer, black and skin-tight, the dress _was _supposed to remind him of Irene Adler, but the thought that he didn't like it on her sets embarrassment and nervousness buzzing inside her. It feels… It feels more important than she thinks it ought.

"Didn't you think it suited me?" she asks, and as soon as she says the words she's mortified at how small her voice sounds.

_Really, are you going to be __**this**__ insecure? _she asks herself. _What happened to Sherlock Holmes__'__ big bad dominatrix? _

Judging by the puzzled look on Sherlock's face, he's thinking the same thing.

He cocks his head and peers at her, her breasts forgotten as he tries to figure out what she wants him to say. She looks back at him, slightly unsure, and opens her mouth to apologise- _really, the breast-nuzzling thing is a far better use of his time_- but then she sees what she thinks might be understanding flicker through his gaze. He looks at her askance.

"Molly," he says. "Is this your way of asking whether I find you attractive?"

She realises with an annoyed start that it is. She wants to hedge her bets with a "maybe," but she's not a teenager and he deserves an answer. So she gives him a miniscule little nod.

"You've talked about trust, but you haven't mentioned attraction," she points out quietly. "And I mean- Trust is harder, I know that. More precious too. Trust lasts, so long as you take care of it, and attraction doesn't. But if we're-" She sighs. Swallows. She's not sure how to say this without putting her foot in her mouth but now that it's come up, she finds she has to know.

"Could you not look at me for a minute?" she asks instead and instantly he stills. Stiffens.

"Do you want me to leave the bed?" he mumbles.

"No!" It comes out a little more forcefully than she intended and when he looks up at her again, confused, she feels her heart contract a little.

_She really, really doesn__'__t want to bugger this up. _

"I just… Can I hold you and not look at you when I tell you?" she asks and he nods.

"You don't always like looking at people either?" he asks, and oh, he sounds relieved.

Molly feels a small, answering tug of solace- of kinship- at the question. There's so little of her experience that Sherlock seems to find common ground with.

"I'd like you to not look at me, yeah," she says quietly. "I think it will make this easier."

"Alright then." And he nods. Rolls her so that once again she's on her side. To her surprise he curls in against her, his forehead pressed to her belly as it had been that first day he showed her the fan. His protecting pose, she realises.

She wonders what he thinks she's going to say to him that he needs protecting from, and she realises that the unease she woke up with is getting progressively worse at the thought.

But she's started now, so she'll have to continue. "I just don't want you to…" She rolls her eyes at her own lack of articulation and tries again. _There__'__s really nothing else for it, she__'__s going to have to be blunt. _

"I fancy you," she begins again. "You know that. In fact, it's so obvious I'm surprised the pathology department haven't printed t-shirts. A calendar and key-rings aren't out of the question either. And even more than that, I care about you. I always have, Sherlock. I always will. So, the topping thing, with hitting you and tying you up and all? I can do that for you. I know it's what you need and I can do it. But…"

She lets out a sigh. Strokes her hand through his hair. _What is the problem, really? _

He looks up at her, though he doesn't meet his eyes, and she shakes her head to herself. She can't believe she's about to say this. She feels like such a, a _prude_.

"Sherlock, if you don't find me attractive then I'm not willing to have sex with you," she says, and even as the words are out of her mouth, she realises they're the right ones.

There are a great many things she will give up believing about herself to help him, but she will not give up on this.

_She will not let go of __**this **__part of herself, not even for Sherlock Holmes. _

He goes absolutely still against her though. Even the hand which had been tracing patterns on her upper thigh stops moving. If she were to guess, she would think he doesn't know what to say.

"I can give you what you need, I can take care of your kink, but this is one of mine, ok?" she's saying. She suspects she's getting close to babbling. "I just won't sleep with you if you're not attracted to me, or you don't want me or care about me, or you, you think that this is just something a domme does, you know?"

And she shakes her head to herself again. She doesn't think she's saying this right.

It was so difficult for him to tell her what he wants, and now maybe it feels like she's giving out to him. She doesn't want that.

For a very long moment the silence stretches out between them, awkward and stiff and so different from their interactions last night that Molly's having trouble reconciling the two.

_How can it be easier to beat him with a belt than to tell him this? _she wonders.

And yet, it is.

But then Sherlock shifts and, still keeping his eyes downcast, he moves until his face is directly beside hers. His hands- both of them- come up to clasp her hips and she can feel his breath against her neck, her collarbone. His hair brushes against her chin. "I've always been attracted to you, my Molly," he rumbles, and as he says the words she sees redness spread against his cheeks.

Instinctively she presses herself a little closer to him.

"But you said…" She takes a deep breath. Closes her eyes and presses her forehead to his crown. If she's this far into the conversation, she might as well go all the way. "What about when you said my breasts and mouth were too small?" she asks quietly. "What about all those nasty things you've said about my appearance, over the years? I didn't imagine all that…"

He speaks over her. "When mortals see a goddess, sometimes they blaspheme," he says simply.

Her eyes pop open at his words but his gaze drops further, his fingers reaching out to hesitantly stroke her thigh. He's staring rather fixedly at a point on her chest.

"I was angry at you, that night in Baker Street," he continues. His voice sounds… hesitant. "First Adler tried to turn my into some lovesick schoolboy with her tricks and taunts, and then you managed it with nothing more exotic than a little black dress and wearing your hair down."

And he shakes his head. Presses a small, quick kiss to her abdomen. Her hip.

She feels the thrill of it down to her toes.

"I didn't like being reminded of my body, or what it wanted from you," he says. "I've always told myself it's just transport, I've always known it was the mind which was important- Especially a mind like yours. So it felt… It felt disrespectful, the things I was thinking. The things I wanted. I didn't like them. I didn't… I didn't _trust _them." he sighs. Shakes his head. "You should… You should have been more than an object of lust, I knew that even then-"

"So you insulted me instead?" Molly strokes her fingers through his hair, almost absent-mindedly, before realising what she's doing. _Is it really so easy for her to forget who she__'__s dealing with? _she thinks.

But of course it is.

He looks up at her though, there from his place against her, and his eyes are electric. Suddenly Molly finds it a little hard to breathe. "Better to insult you than to let you near," he says softly. "I didn't want you hurt. John's tough. So is Mary, and Mrs. Hudson. A nuclear bomb couldn't put a dent in Mycroft. But you…"

And he trails off, places his cheek once more against her stomach. His hair is soft, between her fingers. His breath is little more than a sigh between them.

"Goddesses can play with humans," he says eventually. "They're not supposed to be harmed by the contact."

Now it's Molly's turn to shake her head. "When are you going to learn that I can make my own decisions about things like that?"

He blinks at her. "I have just asked you to become the dominant partner is a BDSM relationship," he says, with such blunt matter-of-factness that it surprises her. "I should think my belief in your decisiveness was self-evident. It just never occurred to me that a lapse of communication on my part could confuse you so." He presses another kiss to her abdomen.

"My apologies. "

And that's apparently that. He wants her. He wants to have sex with her. He even cares about her, and though it's not a declaration of love Molly isn't entirely sure she'd want it to be.

An image from last night flashes behind her eyes, his back and arms splayed and taut and trembling for her- only for her- and even as it does so, she realises that she's… relieved with what he has to say.

She's not sure where this thing between them is going, but she's happier with this than she would be with anything else.

So she reaches down and kisses him again. Strokes his hair before she digs her fingers in and tugs it sharply. The sound he makes when she does this quakes like velvet through her bones. He groans, smiling at her and pressing her back onto her back. Kissing his way down her body until once again he's between her legs. She can feel his breath tickling and taunting her, a barely-there caress against her clit; He drags his teeth experimentally over that tiny, wet pearl of flesh and she can't help it, she swears, her hips bucking. Her hands clenching in his hair again and her arse rising off the bed in pleasure.

He grins at her and she growls. Hisses out another profanity.

She pulls his head back towards her. She doesn't like to be kept waiting and it's best he learns that _now_.

But he nods as if he understands. Turns his face back to her and resumes his work. His tongue and fingers seem to be everywhere and it's strange to Molly to know it's him. Strange to know that this is the man she's wanted for so long.

_And yet, somehow this feels like her due. Their due. _

She bends her knees at the thought, one bare foot sliding down to tease his shoulders and the curve of his arse as he presses kisses against her inner thighs, her mound. He brushes his thumbs over her belly and pelvis, tilting her upwards towards his face even as his fingers dig into her arse-cheeks. His mouth makes her shiver as his tongue darts inside her. She writhes and gasps and moans as he licks and sucks and teases her, over and over again. It's been a long time, and she was already turned on by everything they did last night and this morning. Maybe that's why it takes her so little time to fly apart. Maybe that's why it takes her so little time to come. But come she does, gasping and shuddering and saying his name and when she opens her eyes she sees him staring up at her-

His gaze remind her of the few electrical storms she witnessed as a child.

He watched everything she realises, did everything simply from observation and Jesus but she likes the thought of that. It's enough to make her wet all over again.

_He didn't ask her, but he did observe, because that's what he does isn't it? _

_Her clever, clever boy, Sherlock Holmes. _

"I didn't want to interrupt with questions," he says when he sees her expression. "I will if it becomes necessary, but it wasn't this time. At least, I don't think it was. Was that-" He swallows and suddenly his gaze drops from hers. Becomes diffident. "Was that enjoyable, my Molly?" he asks her.

"You know it was." All Molly can do is smile and nod and sigh. "Come here," she murmurs, "and kiss me. Since you seem to be so bloody good at it…"

Something moves through his eyes, something too quick to decipher, but then he's beside her. So close, an octopus indeed. She can taste herself on his lips, his tongue, when she sucks them between her own and she loves it.

If there's anything about this he didn't like then he seems disinclined to say.

* * *

When they eventually leave the bed she tells him to dress in front of her.

She watches, fascinated, as he puts that armour- trousers, belt, shirt, jacket- on his body again. His backside is a constellation of bruises, something which seems to please him no end, and though she offers him arnica and painkillers he refuses.

"That's hardly the point, my Molly," he says.

When he's ready she stands and lopes his tie around his neck, knots it quickly and efficiently into a half-Windsor. "You will not loosen this without my permission," she tells him, "and you will not take it off. Do you understand?"

He nods and smiles, that same gentle, diffident look in his eyes that she's slowly getting used to. He reaches down and kisses her cheek, breathes her in.

For a split second she doesn't want to let him go.

"Can I come back here tonight?" he asks, and she nods. "Good, there's something… Something I'd rather like you do with me. I think… I think it might help, with everything that we discussed today." His grin turns mischievous. "Trust me."

And with that he pulls on his coat, opens the door. His hand strays, almost absently, to trace his tie.

Molly kisses him again, once more, on her step and then he disappears into the street below and when Liz and Emma arrive to pick her up for their monthly brunch date she says not a word about how happy she feels.


	16. Fix

_Disclaimer: _This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their review go to AJP910 (lovely to hear from you, hope you're feeling better), Poodle warriors, Sara Dobie Bauer, Equal-Opportunity-Reader, LadyK1138, coolaquariun, Rocking the Redhead, coloradoandcolorado1, Katya Jade, kraftykathy. and my mystery guest More hotness in this, and perhaps some character development- let me know if you enjoy... Hobbits away, hey!

* * *

- **FIX -**

* * *

Sherlock can feel the effects of Molly's punishment with every step he takes, and it makes him smile for the rest of the day.

It makes him smile when he pops around to Baker Street to see John, and it makes him smile when he encounters Lestrade at the crime-scene he wants Sherlock to work on.

It makes him smile when he encounters Sally and explains to her that she's entirely right, this case is only a two and the trophy wife did it, it makes him smile when he and John return to Baker Street and he sits, sore and satisfied, as Mrs. Hudson pours him his tea and asks he and John how they've been.

(She is, he can't help but notice, too discrete to ask him where he was last night, and for that Sherlock is grateful.)

John spends the day, watching his friend with a mixture of surprise and nervousness, his curiosity about what's gotten into Sherlock obvious. But he doesn't demand an explanation and he doesn't- thankfully- assume that it's related to narcotics, something for which Sherlock is genuinely relieved.

_He's not sure he could bear another Watson Family Interrogation right at the moment. _

John does ask, but only in the most general terms, how he's doing and what he might have going on for the next few weeks- "Honestly, I thought once you got out of rehab you'd be at me night, noon and morning with cases-" but Sherlock shrugs. He's working, it's true, but he doesn't feel that smothering _need _for the work that he usually does. No, the need he's carrying around inside him right now is entirely centred on Molly.

All these years, he thinks, all that time spent tying his appetites up with drugs and cases and adrenaline, when what he really wanted was someone he could trust to do wicked things to him.

_It__'__s remarkably obvious, now he comes to think about it. _

He smiles at the idea, shifting in his seat and grinning in satisfaction as this action causes discomfort to his bruised backside. Between that and the tie Molly put on him, he feels entirely… Wanted? Satisfied?

_No, _he thinks_. Grounded. _

This thing between he and Molly makes him feel _grounded_, for the first time since before his Fall.

It's most surprising, and for some reason he doesn't want to examine the thought makes Sherlock quite… uncomfortable. Nervous, almost. That hunger for a fix, always on the surface of his consciousness these days, shifts and growls at it. Demands, as it has been doing for weeks now, to be fed. Sherlock tries to turn from it, dismiss it, but somehow it's not so easy as it usually is-

So he focuses on what he's going to do with Molly tonight. Puts his energy into that, until the craving abates a bit. Eventually it gets to the point where he can pretend he isn't feeling it at all. If John sees any evidence of his lapse, he gives no evidence of it, just finishes his tea and bids his friend a fond farewell-

By the time Sherlock lets himself into Molly's flat two hours later he's almost completely overcome it, something for which he is grateful. _Very grateful. _

He can't wait to see her again and show her exactly how much he's been thinking about her: Ever since she brought up that moment at the Baker Street Christmas party all those years ago he's known just what he wanted to say. How he wanted to repair what happened.

_If he can fix this_, he thinks, _then he can fix anything_.

_And there are so many things he needs to fix. _

He doesn't know why that thought makes his throat close in apprehension, why it makes him so nervous, and as if so often the case these days he decides not to pursue it. His worries are dull, at least that's what he tells himself.

John's disappointed face flashes behind his eyes as he thinks it but he won't examine that either.

* * *

Molly comes home to find her flat in darkness, the living room and her bedroom lit by a mixture of half-used candles, a Bunsen burner and some yellow snap-lights. It gives the whole place a warm, soft glow, one only added to by the dim light from the streetlamps outside.

With the traffic whispering outside, it feels quite peaceful.

When she sees it she smiles and calls out to him- "Sherlock, please tell me you're there. It's either that or I've been broken into by a really romantic burglar-" but he doesn't answer.

He opens his mouth to do so but the words won't come.

Instead he tries to tamp down on the excitement he can feel in his belly. His hands are shaking slightly, and though he knows he should be horrified by that, he is not. He's left a small post-it note on the door to her bedroom, asking her to come inside; He watches from her bedroom en-suite as she opens the door. Looks around the room.

The infamous little black dress she wore that night at the Baker Street Christmas party is laid out on the bed and he sees the moment she recognises it in the way her frame tightens. Suddenly, there's tension in her.

She reaches out and touches the dress as hesitantly as if it were a snake.

"Sherlock..?" she calls again, and this time she sounds worried. Almost… timid. "Sherlock, I don't- I don't know what you're planning, but I'm not sure-"

"Please."

He speaks over her and he knows how effective it is, when he asks nicely.

He knows now how much she likes it when he begs.

"Please, my Molly," he murmurs and now he can move. Now he pads into the bedroom. The tie she told him not to remove lies heavy around his throat.

He wants so badly to feel her open it.

She turns to look at him and he can see the pain in her eyes, hurt remembered mixed with confusion. Fear. She doesn't know what he wants from her, he realises. She's afraid he's going to act as he did that night in Baker Street. _You always say such horrid things, always. Always. _

The words echo like a broken chord inside his head.

So he tries to make his expression as unthreatening as he can. As gentle. It is not easy for him, such vulnerability, but for her he will try. "Please," he says again. "Just put it on. I'll make it worth your while, I promise. I just…"

And he crosses the room. Lays his hand, once more, upon her cheek. Her skin is warm and smooth beneath his palm, and she feels like she might be trembling.

"I know you've had a long day," he says. "And I know you down want to remember this-" he nods to the dress. "Or what it used to mean. But please, my Molly: it means something different now. It does, I promise you, it does-"

She shakes her head though, blinks at him, and for the first time since this whole thing began, he thinks that she doesn't believe what he's telling her.

"I thought you didn't make vows?" she asks faintly. Her eyes seem to glitter in the pale glow of the candles, the snap-lights, and he almost winces, an image of Magnusson rising up behind his eyes though he manages to repress it.

_Trust his Molly, to remember so pertinent a detail at a time like this_.

He clears his throat, suddenly nervous. And yet, being truthful with her is surprisingly easy. His truths don't scare her, no matter what they may be. "I'll make no more to John, I think," he says. "I don't believe that they end well. But you?"

He reaches forward again and, hesitant as he is at the contact, presses a kiss to her forehead.

"You, I will make vows to. I will never willingly hurt you, my Molly, and that is my first one."

Without him asking her, her hand reaches out, strays beneath his tie to press against his heart. She leans her forehead against his, and she's a little breathless.

He's said the right thing, he thinks, and it was precisely what he meant.

_How utterly extraordinary. _

"Alright," she says quietly. "I trust you, Sherlock. Just…" She bites her lip and nods towards the en-suite where he had been waiting for her. "Wait in there, would you?" she asks quietly. "I- I haven't worn this dress since that night and I- Well, I don't want you to see me getting into it."

As she speaks, her shoulders slouch in on themselves. Her arms wrap around her middle, and she appears to be trying to make herself small.

_It's almost like she wants to be harder to see. _

Sherlock doesn't understand it- in that dress, her body is more than visible, its shape is downright obvious- but though he is confused he does as she asks. He wants this to be good and right for her. He can see that it is difficult, so he acquiesces.

He's in the en-suite for nearly a quarter of an hour before she calls for him and when he steps out, he stops dead. He can't stop staring.

For a moment it's almost like he _has _travelled back in time four years.

Every detail of her is perfect: The massive hoop earrings are present and correct, the makeup outlining her eyes and mouth still obvious. All that's missing is the silly tinsel bow she wore in her hair, but given how lovely that long, lush cascade of brown is he can easily forgive the lapse. He could forgive her anything, he thinks, when she looks like this, and maybe that's why he reacted to it so badly last time.

_Maybe he wasn't ready to accept how lovely she is when she lets other people see it. _

Under his gaze she shifts- _the shoes are different_, he realises, _stilettos and not kitten heels_- but though they appear to be causing her discomfort Sherlock somehow knows it's more than that. She's inside a memory now, as he is, but it is not one which brings her joy. It is not one she would willingly live through again.

_And yet, if he's being honest with himself, he knows she's done it for him; With her looking so lovely, he should truly make it worth it for her. _

So he crosses her bedroom and stops in front of her. Slowly, gently, he slides his fingers through the ends of her hair, delicately cups the back of her head. The tresses feel soft. Warm. They smell of her shampoo and antiseptic soap and underneath that the fresh, pungent scent of lemons (it's the only thing which can remove the stench of decay some days, at least that's what she once told him).

She blinks up at him with huge dark eyes, her fingers toying with his tie, and he sees it, the moment when she registers the dilation of his pupils. The shallowness of his breathing.

Her gaze strays downwards and he watches, fascinated, as her tongue wets her lips at the sight of his hardening cock.

_Mortification and arousal twine together along his insides. _

"You were trying to hide this from me that night in Baker Street," she says and he nods.

He can't bear to lie, not here. Not now. Not when she's been so brave for him.

"You scared me half to death," he whispers, his tone as embarrassed as if he'd just confessed a prurient interest in the mating habits of badgers. "You weren't supposed to be, to be _alluring_. Nobody is supposed to be alluring to me. Married to the job, and all that. The monk of Baker Street. So I pushed you away and I deleted everything I knew about how I felt and I tried to make it so that it had never happened-"

"But it was no use." Her hand slides down, gently, towards his tie. She tugs it.

He stops babbling, and for the first time since she entered the bedroom his Molly smiles at him.

Her fingers continue their downward trajectory, brushing lightly over his cock, sliding around to once again tease his arse. This time she steps closer, both palms pressing against him, and as ever it feels so bloody good, the way her nails dig into his flesh through the fabric of his trousers and of his boxers. Their hips are pressed tightly together now.

He swears every ounce of his blood has begun pooling in his prick.

"Sherlock?" she says and her voice is a purr, a caress. There's the most delicious sort of wickedness in her gaze. "What do you want me to do to you?" she asks and she digs her nails in. The pain is arousing. Exhilarating.

It brings everything into the sharpest focus.

"Please take off my tie," he mutters, and he sees the way that request pleases her. Sees the triumph in her eyes as she realises that he has done as she told him, he has neither loosened nor removed it all day.

_He's been good for her. He __**has**__. _

"And what will you do for me if I do that?" she asks quietly.

She's pressed that lithe, elegant little body against his, chest to thighs now, and her hips are pushing against his, more forcefully.

Sherlock knows his control is slipping.

"What-" he clears his throat, tries again. His voice came out a little strangled that time. "What would you like, my Molly?" he asks, making sure to force his voice deeper. More resonant. He knows now that she likes that.

Her eyes widen, black nearly entirely drowning out the brown and he can't help the drunken little smile which spreads across his face.

His Molly cocks an eyebrow.

"I would like you to make up for your transgressions tonight, Sherlock," she says tartly, and suddenly it's like every nerve ending in his body has come alive. Because she's reached up and now she's opening his tie, pulling it loose easily. Her hands are at his chest and she's pushing him back towards the bed. Onto it.

He lands with a small bump and she's on top of him, her nails raking over his flesh, her hips still pressed, snug and firm against his cock.

She twines his fingers between hers and then roughly presses them over his head.

Sherlock stares up at her, his chest aching with the force of everything he's feeling. And then she's kissing him, her lips and tongue wet and wild and deep and he gives himself up to it. Hands himself over to her entirely. _There's nothing more he wants than this. Nothing more he __**needs**__. _Within moments she's pulled the shirt from his shoulders and flipped him onto his stomach, her fingers working the buttons of his trousers as he pushes his hips helplessly into the bed. Into her hand.

The pressure brings some relief but it's not nearly enough.

The feel of his bare flesh against the linens as she discards his shirt isn't nearly enough either, but he knows he'll have to make do.

His Molly is not cruel though, and she doesn't make him wait for long. No, she pulls his belt and trousers loose, her nails raking over his already-bruised backside and when he hisses in pain she tugs at his hair, her lips and teeth sliding against his ear. The back of his neck. His shoulders. His entire body bucks just with the feeling of it as she pulls his clothes loose, and then her hands are removing his socks. His shoes. He hisses some pleading request and, sharp as a gunshot, her hand reaches out. Strikes his arse with sharp, staccato force.

He feels the pain through every inch of him. It is resonant. Lovely. Bright.

"You will be quiet," she snaps. "Or I will stop. Is that clear, Mr. Holmes?"

He nods helplessly. The side of his face is still pressed into the pillow.

"Yes, my Molly," he says. "I will not speak until spoken to."

He sees her from the corner of his eye, sees the small, cunning little smile she's wearing.

"Excellent," she murmurs. "Considering the wicked words you've used on me tonight, I think we should put that tongue to its proper use."

And she shifts. Orders him onto his back.

With anyone else he would be horrified by how eager he is to do as she tells him, but with her he simply doesn't care.

So he lays back. The bruises on his arse flare in soreness as his weight and hers comes to rest against them, but his Molly merely smiles. Tightens her thigh's grip on his hips. She shifts until his cock is pressing against her mound- _And oh but Sherlock likes the feel of __**that**__. _

She rolls her hips, teasing him but not taking him inside her and his eyes nearly go backwards in his head. He must make some sound because again she slaps him, the blow landing smartly against the side of his right thigh.

He can't help it, his hips buck again, pressing more firmly into her at the sensation, and she shifts so she's moved away from him, the wetness between her thighs now out of his reach-

He actually, despite his best intentions, moans. He can't help but think he sounds a little… needy.

"I can see this is going to require more self-discipline than you have," she says darkly.

She leans over, picks up his tie. His _silk _tie.

_Silk has a tensile strength almost as great as that of steel, _Sherlock thinks dizzily.

Her eyes fall to his wrists, still above his head, and he feels his heart jerk in his chest.

Slowly, with predatory certainty she moves back towards him. Loops the tie into a simple knot and slides it around both his wrists. He is secured. Bound.

He thinks he might have stopped breathing.

Their eyes lock and suddenly they're both breathing heavily. Neither says a thing- _safe words, ground rules, they covered that the day he showed her the fan_.

There's no need to worry about them now.

And then, with excruciating, stately elegance Molly attaches the other end of the tie to the left side of her head-board's base, there where it's nailed into her bed. Securing it firmly. Giving Sherlock something to pull and tug and writhe against.

Giving him (as always) what he wants. What he _needs_.

He gives an experimental little pull on the tie and when it doesn't give he feels something, something almost… peaceful settle through him. For the first time in a long time, his mind ceases its endless noise.

_And I didn't even need to score a hit, _he thinks dazedly.

With practiced ease Molly moves back until she's on top of him. Her hands pull her dress off and bare her body to her captive. Sherlock feels the push of her hips against his, feels the slip and press of wetness as she takes him inside her. He drags against his bonds, feels the strength of them dig into his wrists-

And then he's lost to everything but her need. Her rhythm. The feel of her.

The silence in his head gets brighter. Stronger.

_Suddenly he doesn't care if he never thinks again. _

She rides astride, breathless, those beautiful breasts he tried to deny bouncing with each thrust. That lovely mouth he tried to ignore open and panting and gorgeously, wetly red in the gloom. Her hands curl in his hair and her tongue curls in his mouth and he thinks he might be saying her name over and over, like a litany, but he's too far inside this thing he's found with her to be terribly sure. _And he really doesn't care. _She takes her pleasure, rides him and writhes for him. Hisses and curses and tells him she wants him, and he gives her everything he has. Everything he'll ever be.

Every time he thinks he'll come he pulls himself back, gives her more of him. Considering his crimes it's the least he can do, he knows that.

_And she's his Molly; If anyone deserves his service, it's her. _

Eventually though she slows. Eases. Now her kisses are teasing. Gentle.

She's sated and satisfied by his ministrations and now she wants to play.

So she whispers in his ear that he should come for her and come for her he does. He feels the force of it down to his toes. To the roots of his hair.

For the second night he falls asleep in Molly Hooper's bed, and this time her bare flesh is pressed against his.

The black dress lies discarded in a corner.

* * *

The next morning he takes her into the shower and washes her. Cleans, dries and brushes her hair. He's so hungry for the feel of her that he touches every inch of her skin and when she asks him why he kisses her some more.

_He's not sure he has the words to explain. _

When he's fed her he dresses her in her Molly-clothes- _tan slacks, a yellow and green top and, of course, one of her truly hideous jumpers. This one has some sort of flower pattern on it_. Sherlock smiles at her and tells her how lovely she is, and when she teasingly asks whether he prefers her little black dress he shakes his head.

"You look like you," he says. "I only like it when you look like you."

She stares at him long and hard and then she kisses him. It feels… It feels like there are words inside it, but she can't bring her mouth to say them aloud.

So she snogs him good and proper instead. Leaves him bloody breathless.

Sherlock walks her as far as her Tube and buys them both a coffee before they part at the top of the station's stairs; He's whistling when he gets back to Baker Street to find John waiting for him.

If only the rest of his day had continued like that, he'd have been a very happy man.


	17. Proof

_Disclaimer: _This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to thetamedrose, lollypopGuild-UK, AJP910, The-Scorpio-Holmes-Sister-221B, Poodle warriors, Sara Dobie Bauer, Katya Jade, Equal-Opportunity-Reader, LadyK1138, lavanyalabelle and molliquin. Apologies for the delay, but writer's block affects us all. And while this chapter may feel like a departure, trust me: all is not as it seems...

* * *

- **PROOF -**

* * *

The town-car is waiting for Molly as she rushes out of the Barbican tube station.

Considering how difficult- and illegal- it is to find parking on Aldersgate Street, Molly's more impressed than surprised.

But parking difficulties notwithstanding, she spots the massive black car the minute she exits the station, its looming shape reminding her of nothing so much as a bird of prey. Mycroft Holmes' assistant is standing on the street, leaning on the driver's door and staring at her, and as soon as she makes eye-contact the woman smiles. Waves as if they're old friends. Begins crossing the street and coming towards her.

"I can give you a lift, darling, if you like," she calls. "Don't worry, I'll get you there in no time."

Though she looks absolutely harmless, Molly knows better than to think this is a request; Thanks to John, she recognises an Holmes-sponsored abduction when she sees one. Rather than put off the inevitable however, Molly decides to give in with grace: After all, in being taken in by Mycroft, she's joining a very exclusive club.

And she's fairly certain Sherlock's brother won't assassinate her.

So she smiles awkwardly at Mycroft's Girl Friday and nods. "A lift would be lovely," she says, and if her voice shakes a tiny bit when she says it then so be it.

_She never claimed to be a good actress. _

"Easy," the other woman murmurs as she begins leading Molly towards the town-car. "He just wants a chat. And you'll do better with him if you don't show weakness." The woman throws an assessing look at her, frowning. "You'll be fine," she says. "Probably."

"Oh, joy." Molly doesn't exactly find that advice, unexpected as it is, to be soothing but then she doesn't think it's meant to be. Instead she folds herself inside the car, noting that Mycroft's not employed a driver today, which she thinks might be unusual.

His assistant takes the wheel and pulls out into the traffic, smoothly setting off in the vague direction of Westminster. For a beat silence reigns, and then-

"Bart's has been informed of your lateness," Mycroft Holmes informs her imperiously.

He hasn't looked up from his paper.

Two months ago that tone might have intimidated Molly, but to her surprise she finds that Sherlock's brother isn't nearly so scary as she remembers. Or maybe she's just gotten a bit more confidence in herself lately.

An image flashes behind her eyes, Sherlock twisting and writhing against his bonds, his beautiful body straining and bowed and desperate for her, and despite herself she smiles. Confidence wells within her.

_Yes, _she thinks, _she__'__s definitely changed for the better since she started playing games with Sherlock Holmes. _

So she lets her grin widen. "I'd expect nothing less," she says, in that voice she normally reserves for Sherlock when he's asking her to take charge of him. Mycroft blinks at it, looking up in surprise.

It doesn't look like the sort of thing he has a lot of experience with. Surprise, that is.

"I see my suspicions are true, then," he says. He shakes his head, leans down and presses a button the car's door-lock. A glass screen rises from the opposite seat of the car, portioning off the driver's side of the car from the passengers'. Clearly, what he's about to say isn't something he feels comfortable with even his Girl Friday hearing.

The woman stiffens a miniscule amount but gives no other sign of noticing her employer's actions. She keeps her eyes on the road.

If Molly hadn't been watching her, she might not even have noticed it.

"So," Molly says once the screen is in place.

Mycroft inclines his head slightly. "So," he rejoins. He lets the silence hang, master intimidator that he is.

Molly's not biting though. "You want to talk to me about your brother," she says, because really, what other reason could there be for all this cloak and dagger nonsense? And she's learned a lot, this last month, about being able to take charge of things like conversations.

_Having a gorgeous detective willingly at your beck and call will do that for a woman. _

Mycroft sniffs. "You really should learn the value of subtlety, Ms. Hooper," he says in a vaguely patronising tone. "But yes. I wish to talk to you about my darling baby brother-"

For a moment Molly stares at him, wondering whether a man so famous for kidnapping should be taking her to task for a lack of subtlety, but she elects to hold her peace.

Instead she cocks an eyebrow at him.

"A woman pretending to be stupid isn't subtle, Mycroft," she points out. She'd call him Mr. Holmes, but there's only _one _Mr. Holmes as far as she's concerned, and he's out solving crimes with John Watson right now. She'll not use that endearment on anyone but him. "And I fail to see why you'd expect me to lie to you: you have Sherlock watched. I know that. So does he." She shrugs. "Personally, I think it's rather… sweet, actually."

This time Mycroft glowers at her, his arms crossing his chest in irritation.

"I am not _sweet, _Ms. Hooper," he bites out tartly in a tone of voice so like his brother's that Molly has to fight the urge to smile.

_She doesn__'__t think it will help matters right now, however tempting. _

"I have no opinions on your sweetness, one way or the other," she says instead. "You could be downright fluffy, for all I know." Mycroft shoots her the sort of filthy look which she suspects has gotten men killed and she grins. "But I still think wanting to keep an eye on him is nice. It's probably one of the reasons he's not dead yet." Something occurs to her. "And it's Dr. Hooper, not Ms. Even your brother has the manners to remember that-"

"The words "manners," and "Sherlock," do not belong in the same sentence," Mycroft says severely.

Molly shrugs. She's starting to suspect that her nonchalance is… irking the great Mycroft Holmes. _It__'__s__…__ Well, it__'__s sort of fun, actually_.

Turns out, John was right.

"He has plenty of manners with me," she points out sensibly. "You, on the other hand…"

She shrugs again and Mycroft's eyes narrow, as if she's made some very great admission.

"Ah yes," he says. "Manners. Is that what the bright young things are calling it these days?"

And he reaches into his briefcase and takes out a pale (unmarked) manila folder. Flips it open and pulls out a series of glossy, high resolution black and white photos, spreading them out on the seat between Molly and himself. Making sure she can see them clearly. The photos time-stamped from that first night in her apartment after Sherlock got out of rehab and they look like they were taken with a long-lens camera.

Now that he's taken out the photos, Mycroft seems to regain some of his former equilibrium.

It's the smug smile which gives it away.

Molly leans forward though. Frowns. Examines the images. Each photo shows her and Sherlock together, naked. (Well, Sherlock is.) They're clearly enrapt in each other: Several show her hitting Sherlock with his belt, his eyes pressed shut and teeth bared with the pleasure of it. There's such a look of peace on his face that for a moment she's back inside the memory, her stomach twisting into knots at the recollection. Arousal beginning to pool in her veins. He looks so young and so awfully, awfully vulnerable- So awfully, awfully _beautiful_, like that. It's the sort of thing which makes Molly secretly proud that it was she he chose to share his kink with, the sort of thing which, though it makes her blush, she couldn't bear to be ashamed of-

It is while she is musing on this however that something rather problematic occurs to her.

Something which makes her frown, which sets her heart creaking with disquiet in her chest.

Because it occurs to Molly that these images- These images didn't come from a surveillance camera. They must have been taken by a person; A stationary camera could not have changed angles the way the camera which took these pictures did, and it would not have been able to zoom in without making the sort of noise which would have attracted attention, even considering how distracted she and Sherlock were on the night in question. An automated camera also wouldn't have made the decision to focus on Sherlock's face, a focus which makes the entire image seem not so much like a record of an event but rather more like an accusation-

It comes to her, sudden and surprisingly disturbing: Someone had been watching her. Someone had been watching _them. _

Someone had been spying on them.

And she finds that she likes that thought not at all.

Though Molly knows that it's ridiculous- theoretically speaking she _knew _that Sherlock was being watched- it had never really occurred to her that someone had witnessed the things they did together. The things they had shared. And it had certainly never occurred to her that they would be thrown in her face like an accusation, the sort of thing she would be called upon to defend herself against, as if she'd done something terrible- Something wrong-

_The things she and Sherlock do together are never, ever wrong, she knows that. _

And yet…

She looks up to see Mycroft Holmes' self-satisfied expression as he grins at her and suddenly, for no reason she wishes to examine, Molly can feel her skin begin to crawl. For a moment the room is watery and indistinct, and she thinks… She thinks she's going to cry. She's almost certain of it. With sorrow or rage or frustration, she simply can't tell which. Her heart is beating, too loud and too heavy in her chest, and once again she thinks that there isn't really enough air in the car. In the street. In the world.

Yes, crying feels like a very good idea right now.

But then she looks up at the smug, self-satisfied expression on Mycroft's face and in that moment she decides that she will not cry in front of this odious, interfering little man.

It doesn't matter how upset she feels. She won't give him the satisfaction.

So though she can see the triumph in his eyes, she manages to tamp down on her emotions.

"Are manners what you're trying to teach Sherlock in these photos, Ms. Hooper?" he's asking silkily. "Because I must admit, this is about the only method I haven't tried…"

He gives a short, pointed little snicker and once again Molly feels her skin might be crawling.

Her hands twist themselves into fists in her lap, her nails digging into her palms.

"I don't know where little Sherlock gets this from, I really don't," Mycroft continues. _He's enjoying this._ "I mean, The Woman I could almost understand, but this..?"

He tutts disapprovingly. Holds up one particular picture. This is from the next morning, Molly standing in front of Sherlock and tying his tie, telling him not to take it off without her permission. She's naked as the day she was born, and Molly feels far more exposed now, sitting opposite Mycroft with a photo of a stolen moment in his hand than she did when his brother stared at her and kissed her bare body.

She feels… She feels almost violated, and not in any way she's ever thought she could feel before now. It is a horrible sensation.

"I suppose all those substances he indulges in really must have gone to his head this time," Mycroft is musing. He shoots her a sharp, cold smile. "No offence, Ms. Hooper-"

"None taken," Molly manages to bite out. She's having to fight very hard against the desire to shrink back in her chair, but the driver's words about standing up to Mycroft come back to her and she forces herself to sit straighter.

"I should hope not." Mycroft's smile is so pleased it's almost vulgar. "Honesty's always kinder, at a time like this."

And he smiles again, well pleased with himself. The words, cruel and dismissive as they are, seem to touch off every insecurity Molly has ever had about herself- it feels like salt being poured on a wound. The confidence she felt when she entered the car seems entirely imaginary. She's back to being plain old Molly Hooper again- No, it's worse, she's back to being who she was five years ago, when she was still allowing another Holmes to walk all over her. Still allowing one to say such awful, awful things, and she can tell that Mycroft isn't even sorry.

Sherlock's face floats behind her eyes and suddenly she wants to push the image away.

But though she wants to curl up back inside that insecurity, familiar and welcoming as it is, something about his tone pushes at Molly's intuition. She's spent enough time around Sherlock to know that taking things at first glance is seldom a good idea. And Mycroft's behaviour is almost too relaxed, too casually cruel. Too deliberately galling. Subtlety is something this man prizes above all else, but the insults he's lobbing are blunt. Crude. Subtlety's very opposite. Though Mycroft is trying to sound offhand, his words are anything but. They are designed specifically to pick at something about her. To cause hurt- To her.

And _that, _Molly thinks, is a very interesting idea.

Because Mycroft's words are as callously well-aimed as Sherlock's used to be, and Molly now knows why Sherlock uses words in that way, why his deductions are oftentimes so vicious. He uses them as a way of controlling the room, of making sure that nobody will mess with him. Hurt him. Just like that first night in Baker Street when she wore her little black dress, he uses insults and spiteful deductions to keep people at a distance, because he's afraid of allowing them to get too close.

And this, she is beginning to suspect, is a family trait.

So she looks at Mycroft Holmes and wonders. He's still muttering vaguely insulting things about her, gesturing to various photos to illustrate his points. But though she still feels a little sick at how much of her relationship with Sherlock he's spied on, Molly's done listening.

Instead she wonders what he could have to fear from her?

_Because nothing springs to mind, not really. _

But then she recalls him mention of Adler, remembers how twisted and turned around the other woman made his brother. How much damage she did to him. Maybe the elder Holmes is afraid Molly's more of the same. Maybe he's afraid she'll hurt Sherlock even more badly. Maybe he's never had anyone- like Sherlock- and maybe he doesn't recognise caring when he sees it, particularly when he sees it take the form it takes between Molly and his brother.

Maybe he's even trying to keep yet another rival for his brother's affections away from him.

_It's the sort of half-arsed, muppet-like manoeuvre Sherlock might have pulled, back in the day. _

So, despite her anger Molly forces herself to stop at this thought. To think about this what might be going on here, at least for a moment. She's hurt, it's true, but that's not the sort of thing you make a decision over. _Forget don__'__t fight angry, don__'__t fight crying is an even better piece of advice._ And maybe Mycroft really is worried about his baby brother, and he doesn't know any other way to show it than spying and scaremongering; Emotional cop-on doesn't seem the sort of thing the Holmes brothers were born with, and the miniscule amount Sherlock's developed, he's developed by being around people who care for him. Mycroft's not had that, she suspects. But then, Mycroft's not really into that sort of thing, so he doesn't tend to make the effort.

_No, a man like Mycroft would much prefer spying and leverage than outright asking a woman whether her intentions towards his baby brother are honourable_.

Molly narrows her eyes, the theory coalescing the more she thinks about it. It doesn't make Mycroft any less of an arsehole, but it does make his actions a bit more understandable. She has always known that there is nothing he will not do for his family, and upsetting her like this is probably one of his lesser crimes. If she's right then he really just needs to be told to back off and start minding his own business- She has no doubt Sherlock will tell him to do so-

She opens her mouth, about to say precisely that, which is when a loud thump sounds on the windscreen of the car to her right. She jumps, looks up, and suddenly Sherlock's face is pressed against the glass.

He does not look happy.

Just for a moment she thinks she must be imagining things, but she realises she isn't.

Mycroft's female driver has pulled the car into the curb and parked, though the engine is still idling. Again Sherlock's fist bangs into the glass and this time Mycroft raises his eyes heavenward as if to ask for patience and opens the car-door. He doesn't even get a chance to speak though, Sherlock reaches in and grabs him. Yanks him out by the lapels of his coat and presses him against the car door.

He looks… Molly always doesn't recognise him, not the way he looks right now.

"What were you doing with her?" Sherlock snaps, and he tilts his chin into the cab, indicating Molly. It's a very long time since she's seen him looking as angry as that.

Mycroft tries to summon his archest look, but even Molly can see he's a little… perturbed.

He's breathing rather heavily.

"I felt it best she realise that her behaviour hasn't gone unnoticed," he manages to bite out. "We both know where this little tendre will end, brother mine, I'm simply expediting the process-"

He's trying his best to seem unflustered, but it's clearly an act.

Sherlock must guess so as well because he shoots a look into the car, sees the photos. He visibly blanches. His gaze shifts to Molly's face and she realises how she must look, probably white-faced and a little teary-eyed. _She doubts she looks terribly happy either_. Something tells her this will not help and she does her best to smile, to try and make herself seem less upset-

"Don't do that," Sherlock says severely. "You don't have to do that for him, Molly-"

He shoots a look at Mycroft's Girl Friday- "Thank you for the text, Anthea," he says, and then suddenly he's let go of his brother and he's reaching for Molly, pulling her out of the car.

He glowers at the photos as if they were poisonous, dragging Molly closer and wrapping his arm around her waist. He's opened his coat, tucking her inside it, and he feels surprisingly, comfortingly _warm. _Solid.

It's at this moment that Molly realises- much to her chagrin- that she's actually shaking.

_She really hopes Sherlock won't notice, because the last thing this situation needs is more tension. _

He seems oblivious though. "There are no negatives for these photos, Mycroft," Sherlock is saying darkly, "and there won't be any copies either." Without breaking eye-contact the elder Holmes nods to him. It is a small, worried thing, that gesture. "Did Anthea take them?" Sherlock demands and Mycroft gives another miniscule nod. Sherlock relaxes a little.

Clearly he feels Anthea The Girl Friday is to be trusted with his secrets.

Molly's not entirely sure how she feels about that.

But still, she has to admit that she's happy he's here, and she's glad she didn't have to have this conversation with him. She's not sure how she would even have opened the topic up for discussion, but Anthea's warning to Sherlock appears to have saved her that trouble. _She is rather surprised, however, at how the other woman's loyalties have worked out. _Without saying anything else Sherlock pulls her away from the car and throws one last, disgusted glower at Mycroft.

Now that he's no longer being pressed against his car however, the older man has managed to gather some of his old aplomb.

"Have a think about how you're behaving, brother mine," he calls after Sherlock with studied indifference. The younger Holmes and Molly have begun walking away. "And have a think about the last time you behaved like this: We don't want a repeat of poor Victor Trevor, after all-"

Sherlock stiffens, just for a moment, but doesn't stop walking. Nor does he say anything.

Mycroft nods to Anthea- he shows her no malice for texting Sherlock- before hopping back into the town-car. Molly and Sherlock watch it pull easily out into the traffic.

"Wanker," Sherlock mutters under his breath. "Interfering, stuck-up wanker."

Molly looks up at him tightens her arms around him. She may be trembling but he's vibrating, so great is his anger and the effort to master it. Though she's curious to know, she decides to wait until they've both calmed down before she asks Sherlock who Mycroft was talking about.

_There's a time and a place for everything, especially a question like __**that. **_

So she wraps her arms more tightly around him, and they hail a cab. Sherlock tells the cabbie to take them to The Mayfair, and when she expresses surprise he points out that she's probably already been rung in as absent by Mycroft, she might as well enjoy skiving off from Bart's. That this is going to be put on Mycroft's credit card, the one he's just nicked from his pocket, only makes the idea sweeter.

She's about to object but then he kisses her and looks at her _that _way, that way that Mycroft's photographer spy documented so thoroughly-

She spends the afternoon in a bed which, she suspects, is bigger than her flat in uni and though she feels an edge of worry gnawing at her about the day's events, she resolutely refuses to investigate it.


	18. Mistress

_Disclaimer: _This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to Poodle warriors, lavanyalabelle, Bucky5, Katya Jade, AJP910, Rocking the Redhead and my mystery guest. Back to the steaminess for this one- You have been warned...

* * *

- **MISTRESS -**

* * *

She's still shivering when the concierge shows them to their room at The Mayfair.

Sherlock can feel the vibration of it, can feel the quick, shallow breaths Molly's taking as she tries to pretend nothing's wrong.

She's pressed tightly against his side, her little hand curled tightly in the fabric of his shirt. He can feel the warm edge of her breast against his ribs, can feel the way her body curls towards his as if he's the only thing she wants to be near in the world. (He already knows that she is that for him.) She hasn't tried to pull herself out of his coat yet, and Sherlock's not inclined to make her until she elects to move herself, he doesn't care how many odd looks this garners from people in the hotel's foyer-

The people who stare are goldfish, and as such they can fuck right off.

They wouldn't understand what they're seeing when they look at he and Molly anyway, and thus Sherlock refuses to dignify their curiosity with any reaction of his own.

So he continues holding his Molly as they make their way to their room. The concierge waxes lyrical about the joys of the penthouse suite as they take the lift up to the top floor- _it__'__s the most expensive room in the house, Molly has earned it_- all the time throwing what he must fondly imagine to be clandestine little looks at Sherlock's companion. The detective can practically see the cogs in the man's head turn as he tries to work out what someone as important as Mycroft Holmes could possibly see in a woman like Molly. (She hardly fits the profile of the usual politician's mistress, after all, and that's the only sort of woman a five star hotel rents a room to in the middle of the day). The concierge however is too wise to ask outright, or to make his curiosity more obvious, and for that Sherlock is grateful-

It's the reason he chose The Mayfair for this little tryst; The staff are famed as the most discrete in London. (He only has one of them in his pay). They're also famously vicious with photographers, or those who might attempt to spy on their guests, which seems like a good idea given the circumstances-

_If Mycroft didn__'__t want some sort of retaliation, _he thinks darkly,_ then he shouldn__'__t have staged that little scene back at the car in the first place. _

At the thought the detective sighs, tightening his grip on Molly. She frowns at him askance but he doesn't answer her, nodding instead to the concierge as he finally opens the door to the suite and gestures invitingly for them to enter. The room is satisfactory. The view is decent. Sherlock's a little disappointed that they didn't make any effort with flowers or such; if one's paying more than a grand for a bedroom then one expects a little more, to be frank.

Molly however gives a gratifying little sigh of surprise, her eyes widening and her death-grip on his shirt loosening. She stares at all about her for a moment before consciously forcing herself not to gawp and it occurs to Sherlock that this might be the first time she's ever been in a room like this before.

The thought… irritates him.

Molly Hooper and he may come from widely divergent backgrounds, but the pleasures of a decent hotel room shouldn't be a mystery to her. Certainly not given how hard she works, or how good she is at her job. _There are things he takes for granted that she should be able to take for granted too. _Inwardly Sherlock shakes his head once more, surprised as he always is by how different his expectations are from those he is close to-

He should have deduced how she would react, and what her circumstances were, he tells himself. Given how upset she is, it's the least he can do for her.

That the thought sounds a little hysterical- and that it has a definite edge of defensiveness about it- is something which he recognises but with which he doesn't wish to deal.

A beat.

The concierge takes his leave of them then, throwing one more curious look at Molly before exiting. As soon as the door closes she begins moving gingerly through the suite, looking into the various rooms. She stops and stares when she sees the canopied four-poster bed in the bedroom; Her cheeks heat and Sherlock knows without her telling him what's running through her mind. (That bed was made for tying people up). But though she stops for a moment she doesn't linger. Instead she wanders into the bathroom, sits down somewhat listlessly on the edge of the clawed bath-rub within. She looks… She looks awfully forlorn.

Sherlock stops, watches her from the door, not sure what to say to her.

Normally when it comes to emotions and things she leads him.

Molly doesn't look like she's about to lead him anywhere though. She's sitting, her shoulders pulled in tight, arms pressed tightly across her breasts. She looks… She looks uncomfortable in her own skin. Nervous, as if she's being watched still and she doesn't want her watcher to see her. _Needless to say, Sherlock doesn__'__t like the look of that_. As if reading his thought- what an asinine notion- she looks up at him. Blinks. She looks rather wan, although at least it looks like she's not shaking anymore-

"It's beautiful Sherlock, thank you," she says. Her voice sounds oddly abashed.

Her gaze drops back to the bath and she frowns. Bites her lip.

The next words are directed to the porcelain.

"Why are we here though?" she asks quietly, and now, now she starts trembling again. Now her breath comes in in a single harsh pant, three breaths' worth of air being pulled into her lungs as her throat works, her hands fluttering up to cover her face-

Before he can think what he's doing Sherlock's inside the room, kneeling down in front of her and running his hands up and down her arms, trying to warm her. When it doesn't work he takes her hands between his larger ones, tries to warm them instead. She stares at him, her expression discombobulated: The bitten lip's back, her eyes shivering wetly, and suddenly, without any real warning, the tears spill over her lashes. Start running down her cheeks.

With a start of panic Sherlock realises she's crying, properly crying.

He doesn't know what to do with people properly crying, he doesn't have any way of dealing with it.

Well, none besides getting someone nice to pat their hand and give them tea until he makes them laugh at an opportune moment. That's what's always worked with his mother, and Mrs. Hudson. And, that one time they never speak of, with John. But there's nobody nice here, nobody he can think to call for Molly, and he doesn't think trying to make her laugh without doing the patting-the-person bit first will help any-

So he just stares at her, her hands still held awkwardly between his as he tries to figure out what to do next.

He feels… Well, he feels quite lost, actually.

Fortunately perhaps, Molly decides to take matters into her own hands however and without warning pulls her hands loose, wrapping her arms tightly around him and pulling him close. The sudden contact is unexpected and he stiffens at it, again unsure how to react. He looks down to see her lovely dark head pressed against his chest, her nose flush against the collar of his coat and the sight makes something twist most unexpectedly in his chest.

So without quite knowing why, he tucks her head in underneath his chin. She's holding him so tight he's afraid she'll break something but he doesn't pull away. Instead he makes the bold and slightly terrifying decision to match his Molly and pull her closer. To hold her just as tightly as she's holding him.

It's really all he can imagine helping with the current… difficulties.

He must do it a little too enthusiastically though because she loses her balance and both of them tumble haphazardly into the bath-tub. He only very narrowly manages to avoid elbowing her or cracking her head against the porcelain- He has to protect the back of her skull with his own palm, the weight of her head warm and unexpectedly distracting in his hand.

She feels so… little, when she's pressed against him like that.

She blinks up at him, staring. Sherlock registers the delicacy of her skull, registers the slight, fragile press of her body against his, still shaking because of her upset over what Mycroft had done to her. The images of those photos his brothers took of them flash behind his eyes and he has to push them away, the surge of anger which accompanies them is so great. He doesn't want to scare her. He doesn't want her to feel anything unpleasant.

She's his Molly, and that means she shouldn't have to deal with such nastiness as that.

As she stars at him her breath softens, expression softening, and as often happens when she looks at him, he has the oddest feeling that they're the only two people left in the world.

Her pupils dilate, her tongue reaching out to wet her lip.

A very long beat stretches out.

"I'm being silly," she says then, and he's not sure whether she's talking about crying, or falling into the bath, or what, but he realises that the what is not important.

_She__'__s stopped crying, and he__'__s holding her close to him, and that is the only pertinent fact in this situation. Everything else can go hang. _

"I'm silly all the time," he points out. "And people like me for it. You're much nicer than me: they'll hardly forgive me something that they won't forgive you-"

He's babbling and what he's saying is ludicrous, he knows that, but he still keeps talking.

Molly's staring at him though, and he doesn't like the silence. He doesn't want her to fill it with words about today and what Mycroft did to her and how angry she is and how terrible she feels now that someone has proof of what Sherlock made her do to him. _Of what he__'__s made her become. _So he decides he's going to keep talking, keep filling the silence with inane chatter. Telling her that silly's a silly word and that really falling into the tub was his fault, so it's him that's silly, and the silly tub is really to blame-

"Sherlock," she says, and her voice is tiny. "Sherlock, I- Could you do something for me?" She blinks up at him with wide, guileless eyes. "Besides stop saying the word "silly," that is."

"Yes, my Molly," he says, and though he doesn't mean it to his voice drops. Some part of his brain wonders if it's becoming habit now, every time he's alone with her. A learned behaviour to please his mistress.

The thought sets something warm and dark and pleasant buzzing in his belly.

For some reason though Molly doesn't seem to like it as much as she has every other time he's done it. No, this time she stiffens, retreating slightly into herself.

Sherlock doesn't know why.

He opens his mouth to ask what's wrong but she shakes her head, breaks eye-contact. She curls in on herself once more, her eyes fixed on his chest, and after a moment he feels her arms twine around him again, her chest and torso pressed tightly against his heart. He's not entirely sure what it means, but she's not telling him to stop touching her or move so he waits. The physical intimacies they share often require patience to carry out; It's just his turn to be forego, this time.

_And if patience is what his Molly needs then patience is what she'll get. _

"I knew," she says then, and though her voice still sounds small, there's a hint of adamant under it. It's this, he realises, which Mycroft would have encountered today, and the realisation makes him glad. His brother probably only pulled the stunt he did to test her metal, and Sherlock's fairly certain steel was what he got.

It should make the case for leaving her the Hell alone in future that much more persuasive.

"I knew he watched you," she continues softly. "I even- I even thought it was rather nice. That he wanted to keep an eye on you. A little creepy and controlling, but he's Mycroft Holmes and you're his baby brother. What else would you expect him to be like?"

And she shakes her head, burrows further into his chest.

If possible, she feels even smaller, more fragile now, and Sherlock has no notion what to do with that realisation.

"I just…" She sighs. "I just didn't think anyone would pay attention to you while you were with me," she says quietly. "I always assumed that's why you preferred my flat to Baker Street- Well, that and less chance of Mrs. Hudson walking in on us…"

She looks up, shoots him a wan little smile. Sherlock returns it.

For a split second she continues to stare up at him, her eyes wide and dark, and he leans down. Presses his forehead to hers.

When he doesn't know what to say that's what he does, and he suspects his Molly knows that.

They breathe together for a long moment, until Molly sighs again.

"He had pictures of me without my clothes on," she murmurs quietly. At saying the words she tenses up, curling even more tightly into him, as if she thinks his body a shield.

_He certainly has no objections to her using it as such._

"I thought- The photos of us, you know, _doing things, _those didn't bother me as much. I mean, I didn't like that someone saw-" A quick, lighter grin flashes for a moment, surprising Sherlock- "In fact, that made me feel rather… territorial. Like someone was poaching on my patch…"

He nods down at her. "I'm yours," he says, very quietly, and he doesn't mind saying it aloud because it's the truth.

"You're mine," she nods. "And I'm… I'm yours, aren't I, Sherlock?"

He nods again. "Most definitely. I won't share you."

"And I won't share you," she says. Her gaze turns darker. More sombre. She looks… She looks sad now. "Not willingly, at least. Not with anyone. Except…"

He thinks that he understands. "Except that you feel like you already have," he says quietly and she nods again.

"Yes," she says. "I feel like… Like your brother got to see something of me that isn't his. It's mine. And I choose to show it to you. Just like you choose to show something of yourself that's very private to me. It's not only the nudity- I'm not- I'm not a prude-"

He can hear the defensiveness in that statement, but he thinks he understands it: This is a woman who spends her life swathing her body in massively loose clothing because she doesn't like being stared at. She's not a prude, but she's not an exhibitionist either.

And Mycroft made her feel like one, took even that tiny amount of control away with his photos.

Maybe, Sherlock thinks, maybe there's some way to give it back.

So he shifts, reaches down and presses a tiny kiss to her forehead. "I doubt anyone could call you repressed, considering the things we do together," he says sensibly and some of the tension goes out of her. She nods, worrying her lip; one of her hands slides up towards his chest and she starts tracing there, her fingers making patterns against his flesh.

He finds he likes it. He thinks his words have made her feel better.

"I didn't want anyone seeing us," she says, "and yet, someone has. I couldn't protect us. I couldn't protect you-"

"It's not your job to protect me," he points out.

She looks up at him sharply. "It _is _my job, when you hand me your control. I'm supposed to be able to keep you safe, you're supposed to be able to trust me. That's why you chose me over Adler-"

"I chose you over Adler because I care about you in a way I couldn't care about her," he says matter-of-factly. "Really, Molly, I should have thought by now that that was obvious."

Again her voice is tiny. "So you didn't just… I mean, it's not only because I'm, well, willing?"

Sherlock feels a tug of exasperation that she's asking him this again, but then he supposes he shouldn't be surprised. He requires plenty of reassurance from her during and after their activities; That she occasionally requires reassurance from him regarding his attraction to her is no great matter. So, though it makes him uncomfortable, he nods. Presses another kiss to her forehead.

"I'd want you, even if you weren't my domme," he says quietly.

"And I'd want you," she says, "even if you weren't my, my, you know-"

"I know." This time he ventures a small peck against her lips. To his surprise she doesn't pull back but reaches up, kissing him willingly. Thoroughly. It's gentle, sweet. No roughness in it this time. This is the kiss he always imagined would be Molly's, before they started playing the games they play, and he thinks its presence might be a good clue to what she needs right now.

So he pulls himself away and- with a great deal of limb-tangling and a little swearing- manages to manoeuvre himself out of the tub. When he gets to his feet he reaches in and picks up Molly, swinging her out easily. She's heavier than she looks- muscle from lifting all those cadavers- but she's still so petite. She fits in his arms. He's always thought that macho nonsense about needing a woman to be smaller than you was stupid but he can understand it a little, right now.

When one wishes to protect another, feeling big and capable next to them makes the endeavour seem a great deal more likely to succeed.

Molly watches him with wide eyes as he carries her out, walks into the bedroom. She tenses when he walks towards the bed and places her on it, opens her mouth to speak though he stops that with a kiss.

"I don't think I can-" she whispers. "I know you got this beautiful bed because you want us to-"

So that's why she had been so uncomfortable. "The bed was a surprise," he says. "Even I am sometimes caught off guard by things, my Molly."

"So you don't want..?" The words are directed to his chest. Again, she's blushing.

"I do want," he says. "I always _want. _But today I think we should have a chat about what you want, don't you?"

The red at her cheeks gets even worse, and for the first time in a long time Molly Hooper looks embarrassed around him. Sherlock's not sure whether to be worried or not.

"What do you want from me, my Molly?" he whispers instead, and he tries to make his voice coaxing. He can see… He can see she's a little nervous about all this, and he understands how that feels.

It had taken him a drugs relapse, a month on the streets, nearly getting a restraining order posted against him and finally presenting her with a sexually explicit piece of artwork before he'd managed to understand, let alone explain, what _he_ wanted.

He hopes it's not nearly so difficult for her, but if it is then so be it.

For a long moment Molly stares up at him, wondering, apparently, what she can say and what she can't. He already knows that she will take his limits seriously; When he told her the few things he will not countenance- no bodily fluids being shed, no verbal humiliation and nothing obstructing his breathing- she had merely nodded and accepted them. It's what had shown him that he really had made the right choice. So in the spirit of making the right choice, he waits and holds his breath. Lets her stare at him, lets her bite her lip and consider.

_He is hers; She has every right to decide what she wants to do with him. _

And then suddenly, without warning, she moves until she's kneeling on the bed beside him, tall enough now to look him in the eye if he's sitting. Her tongue moves out to lick her lips once more and she nods to herself, as if answering a question she didn't speak aloud. She leans in closer and lays her hands on his shoulders, brushes her nose along his cheek. Her own cheek follows it, nuzzling softly into him as if he were the delicate one and she the one hard to break. Sherlock matches her movements, closes his eyes. Feels her lips press against his, soft and surprisingly… chaste. Without his willing them to his arms close around her.

And then she's gone; He opens his eyes to find her lying on that massive bed, staring up at him with heavy lids. Her pupils are dilated now, her breath deeper. Her face is flushed.

Everything about her is making him hard.

"Touch me," she says quietly. "Just touch me, all over." She swallows heavily, eyes flitting away from his.

Red begins returning to her cheeks, and Sherlock doesn't understand why this would embarrass her, considering all the things she's done to him.

But he nods, leans over her. Quietly asks if she wants him to take his clothes off. She bites her lips at that, embarrassed again, but shakes her head. "No," she murmurs. "I want…" He's started sliding his hands up her calves, kneading the skin lightly.

He really hopes she'll permit him to take off all these unnecessary layers of clothing.

"I want you to undress me," she says quietly. "I want you- I want you to touch me. To look at me." Something, some fierce flash of emotion darts through her gaze. "It has to be you," she says tightly, "not anyone else…Just you… Only you…"

"You don't want anyone else?" he asks and now he's smiling, his hands threading up to loosen the top button on her trousers as she nods her consent. He'll get to touch her, he'll get to play. He'll give her what she's asked for, just him. Nobody else.

And maybe the memory of a camera's gaze resting on her will leave, if he touches her enough and in the right ways.

So he does what he does when he's focussing on a case. Closes his eyes, narrows his concentration. Everything else is extraneous matter, things about which he does not have to care. The sound of the city, faint this high up but still present, falls away first. The distracting smells of the room, air freshener and polish, are the next to be dismissed. The buzz of the mini-fridge, the faint hum of the ceiling fans… These are entirely superfluous. They do not deserve his attention, and so they will not get it.

There's only Molly to focus on, Molly's breathing, Molly's reactions, the scent of what he's doing to her. The evidence of how much she wants him to continue- So he does.

It's not like stepping into his Mind Palace, stepping into this Mansion of the Senses he must navigate, and yet some of the methods will apply. He knows that they will. So with slow, methodical thoroughness he sets about removing her clothing. He strokes her flesh before he removes each item, finds every knot and kink of tension within her body before he bares the loveliness of her skin. She's breathing more heavily, her skin flushed and her eyes closed. Her back arches slightly but he ignores her upper torso, concentrating instead on pulling off her shoes, her socks. Stroking her lovely little feet, his finger and thumb wide enough to encircle each of her ankles. Almost the entire length of her sole fits in the palm of his hand.

She sighs and moans at his touch, at his kisses, calling out for him to touch her more, to stroke every inch of her-

Her trouser buttons are already loosened and he reaches up, pulls down the zipper. Hooks his fingers inside both trousers and knickers and pulls both down as gently as he can.

It's one of the perks of loose clothing, that getting her out of it is so easy, and as she raises her backside to help him along he smiles, slides one hand beneath her to cradle her arse-cheeks as the other pulls her underwear and trousers right off her and away.

He tosses them aside and sets to the task of touching her bare calves, her thighs.

He presses his nose, his tongue, his hands over every inch of her flesh, investigating her body in a way he's never had a chance to before. There are small childhood scars, one behind her knee, another at her ankle. He sees a mark which looks like the remains of a removed tattoo, and he resolves to someday discover what it said. There are places where her flesh is softer, striped slightly with the silver lines of age and bobbled, not smooth, so very unlike his own that he stops. Licks. Navigates and kisses and investigates some more-

"Sherlock," she mutters, and when he looks up she seems uncomfortable. "That's my- I mean, I thought you noticed before that I have-"

"Never had permission to investigate before now," he points out with his usual bluntness and for a moment she stares at him. She doesn't seem to know what to make of his words.

But then he slides his mouth over that pebbled flesh again and, since he knows she's watching, he licks. Sucks. Bites, ever so slightly, the sensation making her hips buck off the bed, a string of breathless curse-words pouring out of her. Arousal floods those dark brown eyes and her back arches, one arm coming up to cover her face as the other presses to cover her breasts. Protecting her privacy and giving it over to him, all at the same time. She moans and it's odd, but Sherlock doesn't think he's ever seen her quite so out of control as this-

She looks wanton and gorgeous and beautiful, bare from the waist down and covered from the waist up, his and waiting to be discovered.

She is, in that moment, completely perfect to him.

So he continues his explorations of her thighs. Her belly. The soft, downy flesh is lovely against his skin, his tongue, and the noises her makes are delightful. Guttural and needy and proud. By the time he's reaching for her jumper she's covered in sweat, trembling and quaking from what he's done to her. She holds her arms above her head without being coaxed, the gesture more a command than a request.

He is happy, oh so very happy, to comply.

Once it's off Sherlock pops off the flimsy little cotton bra she's wearing, sets his mouth to her breasts with the same diligence he showed her thighs. By now she's breathing so hard he thinks she might pass out, bucking against him and stroking him and touching him and telling him that she wants him, telling him that she wants him inside her _now_.

But Sherlock doesn't think he'll be able to continue this level of attention when he's seated inside her, and he's enjoying himself too much to give it up. So he sucks and nibbles at those breasts, catalogues the fascinating sensation of her aureole and nipple hardening against his tongue. Enjoys the sensation of her arse, pressing down against his hand as he fills his mouth with her breasts and his nose with her scent. His fingers stroke lazily against her flesh, his nails dragging lightly against her backside. One hand slides upwards, making its way towards the small of her back, his thumb grazing that secret, puckered place between her arse cheeks and she tenses, shakes her head. "No," she murmurs, "please," and it sets something unexpected twisting in him, that request.

She sounds so powerful and so, so vulnerable at the same time.

_She is very, very lovely, to him. _

So for the first time since this started he brings his mouth up to hers. Kisses her. He slides the hand at her bum up to cup one perfect breast and, as if acting on its own accord, the other slides between her legs, grazes the entrance to her cunt. _She's so wet_.

She moans and kisses him harder, nods, spreading her thighs wider as he slowly slides one finger in. She hisses and swears in pleasure; Another finger joins the first, the knuckle of this thumb pressing against her clit with as much weight as he dares until all she can seem to remember how to say is, "yes." She feels warm and wet and ready and gorgeous- It only takes a couple of moment to get her there, her entire body shuddering apart with the force of it. The pleasure of what he's done. She comes, calling his name, and in that moment there is nothing, nobody else, no drugs scare, no interfering brother, no broken engagement or sociopathic tendencies or years spent being wilfully blind about all that she could mean to him-

She curls into him, her head against her chest, his fingers stroking her own stickiness into her thighs now, and in the pale light of a London afternoon, Sherlock Holmes kisses his Molly and calms her to rest. He's never felt quite so contented.

* * *

Unfortunately however, he should have known that such pleasure cannot last.

It's early the next day, when she asks about Victor Trevor.


End file.
